Wired
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: One unlucky punch teaches all three Winchesters a lesson they won't forget.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Wired

Summary: One unlucky punch teaches all three Winchesters a lesson they won't forget.

A/N: This fic is so utterly ridiculous that I simply have no excuses for it! I started this a LONG time ago and it's part of my fic table that I also started a LONG time ago. Then sendintheclowns begged so I finished it. I asked her how far she wanted me to go with it and she asked for going ALL the way, so the gratutitous limpness in the next four sections is all her fault :) Much thanks to her Rachelly who took time out of her busy life to beta this for me. She is invaluable! And she needs to start writing herself again--well, posting. I know she writes :)

Disclaimer: So not mine.

-o-

It was six o'clock on a Wednesday night and Sam had homework to do. Lots of it. A lengthy Algebra assignment. A couple scenes to read from Hamlet. A chapter and study guide for World History. If he was lucky, it would only take him a few hours, and if he got started right away, he'd still have time to head to bed at a reasonable hour so he wouldn't have to pinch himself to stay awake through first period.

He wasn't lucky.

Nope. Sam wasn't lucky. He was a _Winchester_. And Winchesters didn't worry about homework or staying awake in class. No, Winchesters _trained_. They _practiced_. They _prepared_.

The fact that they didn't have a hunt lined up was beside the point. Constant vigilance.

In other words, constant training, day in and day out, with no reprieve.

His father had always been annoying about such things, to the point of being a bull-headed jerk, and it seemed that these days, Dean was more and more amenable to such nonstop training. Not that his brother had ever really been contrary to it, but in the days since Dean had finished his own schooling, his focus was singular, as though he was ramping up to take a much more active role in the family business.

Which was even worse news for Sam.

Sometimes, in the past, Dean had covered for him, let him shirk a little on the ends of training, given him a few more minutes of study time before making him buckle down.

Clearly, that was no longer the case.

Sam had barricaded himself in his room, shut the door tightly and hoped that his family would forget about him and their nightly routine.

The minute Sam heard his brother's footsteps on the stairs, he knew it was a lost cause.

He contemplated his options. Part of him wanted to make a break for it. His room was on the second floor of the crappy house they were squatting in, but that would make little difference. Even though he was still skinny at fifteen, he was wiry as hell and he knew that if the whole ghost hunting thing was ever something he was allowed _not_ to consider, he could have a successful career as a Trapeze artist. It seemed like he'd been squirming out of tight spots for as long as he could remember--in fact, it was one of the few skills his father had always praised him on, because it came in handy when they ended up in locked, tight spaces. Somehow he was always the monkey boy who had to slip through spaces to help them make their great escapes.

He had no doubt he could do it, but he really didn't want to face the consequences of what would happen when he returned. He wanted to escape for a night, not for the rest of his life.

He could always play sick. It was a tried and true method, which really might work with his father's sketchy attention to them. The only problem was that it was _Dean _who was coming up to fetch him, and all of Sam's sick-tricks had been learned and not quite perfected from his big brother.

That left honesty. Telling Dean the truth. Admitting that he needed to study, that he didn't want to train, and that he just needed a night off. It was an earnest plea, and Sam could pull off earnest far better than Dean ever could.

Too bad he tried it every night. Even worse that Dean had just stopped listening.

No matter how he looked at it, no matter how he tried to get out of it, Sam was screwed. His father tolerated no dissention. Dean was far too into his own training to understand Sam's reluctance. And they were both still bigger than he was, they held all the cards, and Sam was still stuck doing whatever it was they told him to do.

When the door opened, Sam didn't even look up, but kept his eyes fastened on the page of his textbook.

"Training time, Sammy," Dean's voice came to him, light and airy. "Dad wants us to spend some time sparring."

Of all the training they did, sparring was pretty low on Sam's list of ones he liked. He could get into physical fitness to some degree--he liked to try to make his stick-like body a little broader, if for no other reason than to stroke his own fledgling ego. He couldn't deny that he was a teenage boy with hormones and a real attraction for pretty girls, even if he was too terrified to talk to them nine times out of ten. And with his recent growth spurts, his body was gangly and awkward, so weight training helped him feel like he could combat that somewhat.

Not to mention that endurance training just _felt_ good. He liked setting his own goals and beating them. Just him against the clock. His father added pressure, that was true, but it was still Sam's body and it was still Sam's success and there was nothing more to it than that.

Weapon training had ceased to interest him when he realized what damage the weapons could do.

But sparring--sparring was just a cruel exercise in futility.

At fifteen, Sam was tall, and, despite his best efforts, still thin. That made sparring not only awkward while he tripped over his own feet, but embarrassing as well. Because in sparring there were winners and losers. Sam, inevitably, was _always_ the loser. Which was exactly what he _didn't _need. One more thing his father could look down on him for, one more thing he could be told to just be _more like Dean_.

Apparently his disappointment was visible.

"Aw, come on, Sammy," Dean chided. "It's not so bad."

Sam let his book fall to the bed and he grunted. "Yeah," he muttered. "For you."

Dean just grinned, far too cocky. "Maybe if you'd get your head out of a book more often--"

Rolling his eyes, Sam forced himself off the bed. "I'm pretty sure that's not the problem."

"Whatever, dude," Dean said. "Downstairs in five. Dad'll be down in a bit to check up on us."

As his brother disappeared from his door, Sam just frowned. "Great," he said under his breath. "Just great."

-o-

The house they were in was hardly upright. Sam was pretty sure it was infested with something, though his dad gruffly assured him that it wasn't. There were mice, which was typical, and there were vast, wide-open spaces around it, which wasn't so common. Squatting was cheaper than motel rooms, though decidedly less clean. However, the trade-off was always in the space--getting his own room was something Sam couldn't deny that he relished, and having space to roam around outside helped keep his imagination satiated.

It also usually provided more ample room for training--a natural shooting range in a wide open field, a winding creek to follow for training runs. Even the house had enough space to clear the living room of its decrepit furniture and create an ideal makeshift gym. In his father's eyes, anyway.

Sam had to admit, it was nice to be able to do jumping jacks without bashing into walls and furniture, but more often than not, his father liked to use the carpeted space to exhibit his sons' talents against one another. Without fail, that made it one of Sam's least favorite places by default.

When he finally came downstairs, donning his sweats and socks, Dean was already stretching. His brother, at nineteen, was done growing in height. However, Dean made up for it by bulking up and filling out. Dean was handsomely built, which Sam would never admit to noticing but he couldn't help it. He'd been following Dean around his entire life, trying to be Dean, trying to impress his father like Dean could, and Dean's new and refined build was yet another area where Sam simply failed to measure up.

Spotting him, Dean grinned. "You better stretch," he advised. "I'm feeling good today."

Rolling his eyes, Sam dropped down, pulling his hamstrings. "Great," he muttered. Just what he needed--not only was his brother stronger and more experience, but he was feeling _good_. Like Sam needed any more reasons to feel like disappearing into the threadbare carpet.

Dean wasn't exaggerating either. His older brother was practically bouncy with energy, rolling his head on his neck and shrugging his shoulders as he bounded up and down in anticipation.

Meagerly, Sam stretched, before resigning himself to the inevitable. "Let's just get this over with."

Dean cocked his head. "Aw, come on, Sammy," he cajoled. "You don't sound very excited."

Sam tensed, on the balls of his feet now, as his brother began circling him. "Excited? To spar? Give me one reason."

Dean lashed out experimentally with a kick that Sam dodged. "A chance to prove yourself," he said.

Glowering, Sam evaded a punch and grunted. "Yeah," he said. "Sure. More like another chance to be told all the things I do wrong."

Reaching out with a kick of his own, Sam's foot only met air and Dean spun away, grinning. "You're no fun sometimes," Dean said.

Feeling perturbed now, Sam went forward again, making contact with Dean's midsection, but his brother countered with a kick of his own. Pulling out, Sam worked to control his breathing. "I've got tons of homework tonight," he said. "I have better things to do."

Before Sam could fully gather himself, Dean grabbed Sam's arm and flung him down where he landed spread-eagle, Dean perched on top of him. "You might want to try paying attention instead of complaining," he suggested heavily. "This isn't a game."

Sam rolled his eyes, huffing out a breath, still pinned flat on his back. "Thanks, _Dad_."

Dean grunted as he pulled his brother up. "Just shut up and spar."

Sam sighed dramatically, but took up his stance again, charging Dean this time with a steady rhythm of attacks, all of which Dean danced with in tandem. Though Sam tried, he could find no opening. Dean's arms blocked his blows and his footwork anticipated Sam's without fail.

It was supposed to be a feint, but Dean read him the entire way, and caught Sam's arm, yanking it before Sam had a chance to rectify the situation.

"Nice move, Dean," a gruff voice said, and Sam cringed from the arrival of his father's presence. Losing to Dean was one thing. Losing in front of his father simply provided his dad one more thing to harp on him about.

His brother was grinning, his eyes sparkling, and Sam noted with frustration that his older brother had barely worked up a sweat.

Perturbed, he tried to counter, but found no purchase.

"Sam, you're not focused." John's voice cut through the heat and Sam felt his frustrations mounting as Dean's hand did not waver.

Brow furrowed, Sam yanked back on his arm, using one foot to kick out at his brother. Dean retreated, letting Sam's arm go, and the two circled each other once again.

_Sam, you're not focused_.

_This isn't a game_.

Reprimands. Reminders. Ridicule. All the things Sam had to overcome, Sam needed to avoid. Nothing he did seemed to be enough--the good grades, the school activities meant nothing to his family--and his meager attempts at training seemed to incite more criticism rather than praise.

He'd just have to--

"Try harder," his father barked. "Move in, come on."

Frustrated, Sam lunged forward, reckless and strong. At the very least, he'd have the element of surprise. His brother expected him to be careful, reserved, tactics Sam usually preferred because they ended up with his butt on the mat fewer times than his blind offensives.

He connected a kick to Dean's midsection, but missed the follow up to his face. The forward momentum made him off balance, and Dean sent him flying toward the wall. Sam cushioned the impact, but still hit with a thump that rattled the small room.

Blushing vigorously, Sam pushed away, turning back to his brother.

This time his father didn't say anything, but Sam could feel his scowl burning into him. Swallowing hard, he approached his brother again, lashing out.

Dean dodged and Sam feinted. His brother tried a kick to Sam's stomach that he managed to block. With Dean's balance precarious, Sam pulled away, and his brother righted himself.

"Come on," his father snapped. "You have to follow that up. Your brother is bigger than you and better than you. If you don't follow through, you'll never make it."

The tenacity and terseness in John's voice shredded the last of Sam's concentration. His movements became jerky and angry and sloppy.

Dean's punch was easy to see coming, strong and sure, and Sam had dodged the same one fifty times that day. But this time the sound of his father's disappointment was prominent in his mind and instead of going right, he went left.

And Dean's fist connected solidly with his jaw.

The force dropped him, and he fell to the ground with nothing more than a muted whimper. The pain was instantaneous and blinding, splintering like sheer whiteness that overtook his consciousness. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, he couldn't feel--there was a painful nothingness that suddenly encompassed his entire being. He was weightless and heavy all at once as the whiteness buzzed into nothingness.

Distantly, he could hear Dean and his father, yelling, talking, saying something, and could even feel them leaning over him, grabbing his arms, shaking him.

It was the shaking that tore him from his white expanse with a jolt of radiant pain, which forced a cry from his throat before he could stop it.

Blinking, he could see them now--a matching set of worried faces hovering over him. Dean looked sheet white, about two blinks from tears and his father's face was drawn and blank, which was the closest thing to emotion Sam had ever seen.

"Sammy? Can you hear me?"

It was his dad, but his lips weren't moving in tandem with the voice.

His ears rang and the words sounded distorted and too slow.

"Sam? Talk to me."

The order sounded more like his father and Sam felt himself trying to comply without thought. His mind tried to think of a response, something to say, but then he realized that he couldn't even remember how to speak.

"Dad, look at his jaw."

That was Dean, and Sam's eyes flicked sluggishly to his brother, who looked positively sick now, even Sam could see that with his hazy eyesight.

John didn't say anything, didn't even look at Dean, though Sam was pretty sure that Dean needed just as much help as he did right then.

Instead, John's hands reached toward him, and Sam wanted to flinch, but instead felt nauseated. His father's fingers probed the side of his head, his ear, but when they touched his jaw, another strangled moan escaped his throat.

Fire erupted now with new intensity on the side of his face, jolting all the way down his arm.

"Easy, kiddo," John soothed, placing a restraining hand on Sam's shoulder. "You're okay."

"It's broken, isn't it?"

Sam wasn't sure what he was talking about--his head? His brain? All of him?

"Looks that way," John said. "We're going to have to take him to the hospital."

Normally this would annoy Sam. Not the hospital, because in general he believed in things like doctors and anesthesia, but they were talking _about_ him. He was lying right in front of them, and they were discussing this like he didn't have a say in anything.

He tried to open his mouth in protest, and fresh pain spiked through him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he felt a tear trickle from his eye. Maybe he _didn't_ have a say in this.

"Sam?" his father's voice came. "We need to get you to the car. Can you move, son?"

Sam wanted to say _no_, not in this lifetime, but he moaned instead. He opened his eyes in time to see his father reach out and take his arm, levering him to a sitting position. Nausea swelled and he swallowed, closing his eyes.

His father's arm was on his back now. "You ready?"

Apparently Sam's groan was enough because next thing he knew he was being pulled to his feet. He staggered a little, leaning into his father's steady arms, for once not too proud to accept the help they offered. It was better than doing a face plant on the floor.

"Dean's getting the car started," his father said. "You going ot make it?"

Sam opened his eyes and met his father's and wanted to throw up.

John smiled a little. "One foot in front of the other."

Sam nodded and obeyed.

-o-

Most of the time Dean didn't mind being his father's good little soldier. For the most part, it came naturally, and he'd been at it for as long as he could remember. It was who he was, as much a part of him as his love for rock music and hot women.

That didn't mean that he didn't doubt his father from time to time. Because sometimes the orders sounded ridiculous, sometimes they sounded cruel, and sometimes they went against the only instinct to Dean that was stronger than his obedience: the one to take care of Sam.

Seeing Sam curled up in pain, barely coherent, in the backseat of the Impala, was enough to make him question everything. Because this wasn't a hunt. This wasn't an angry spirit getting the one-up on them. Those times were bad enough as it was. But this? This was _training_. This was Dean's fist in Sam's face under the constant mantra of telling Sam to focus. All their admonitions, all their lectures, all their insistence that Sam got it _right_ had wound up like this, and Dean just wasn't okay with that.

Feeling that and voicing it were two different things. Dean glanced at his father, who was sitting stonily in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the wheel tightly.

Sam had been aware enough to walk himself to the car, but it had taken more than one firm word from their father to get his younger brother to settle and stop touching his jaw. It was obviously broken, disjointed and sitting out of place on Sam's face. It looked like it hurt like hell—after all, Dean's own jaw throbbed just _looking_ at the damage to his little brother's face. But he had to give the kid credit—Sam hadn't cried--not more than a tear or two of sheer pain reaction. Dean figured his brother didn't even realize he was making any noise at all, so he couldn't fault him for that.

Dean had raced back to the door in an effort to help, but his father clearly had not wanted assistance as he ushered Sam to the backseat. A look from his father had cowed Dean into the front seat, as if sitting in the back would be too much like coddling since Sam was with-it enough to manage on his own. Sitting in the front was usually a privilege Dean relished and liked to lord over Sam. But this time--this time it was hard to not be next to his brother, to not offer his brother the simple reassurance of touch.

The car ride was tense--and silent. His father wasn't much of a conversationalist and it wasn't like Sam was going to start talking any time soon. Dean tended to be the talker in the family these days, ever since Sam's teenage years had brought about his brooding, but any glance at Sam or his father had him swallowing back any words he might say.

Sam, for his part, looked miserable. Accidents happened, Dean knew, but he hadn't wanted to _hurt_ his brother. Kicking his ass was a brotherly gesture, and it wasn't supposed to carry long-term side effects—even bruises were outside of Dean's comfort zone more often than not. Such things went against his most basic desire: to keep Sam safe

Keeping Sam safe meant _not_ bashing his jaw in, accident or not.

Stewing in his own guilt, the car ride was a blur, the town still unfamiliar and unimportant to him. It seemed like no time had passed when his father pulled them up in front of the hospital.

In a flash, John was out of the car and swinging open the backseat. Dean moved to get out on his side, eager to get Sam inside, to hear that his brother would be just fine, but his father's voice stopped him cold.

"Dean, I want you to take the car and find a parking spot," he said. His voice was terse and to the point, but not unkind. There was a hint of annoyance, but no sound of accusation.

Nonetheless, Dean's need for obedience could not fall in line here. He needed to be there with Sam, to hear them say Sam would be okay. "But--"

He never got another word out. His father was shaking his head, helping Sam maneuver out of the backseat. "No buts. This isn't an emergency. We can't risk the car being towed. Now, Dean," he ordered. The back door slammed and Dean could see Sam wavering on his feet, leaning heavily on his father. "Go."

His jaw clenched, Dean nodded through blurred eyes. "Yes, sir," he muttered, scooting his way to the driver's seat. By the time he pulled the door shut and had the car in Drive, he could see his father disappearing with Sam into the ER doors.

-o-

It was a testament to how bad Sam looked that the doctor took him right away. One look glance and the man had grimaced, nodding to a nurse to gather a gurney to haul Sam off on. While John was relieved that his son was getting treatment, part of him hated to know that it was serious enough to warrant immediate attention.

He hated even more that he was relegated to the waiting room.

A few simple questions about Sam's age and allergies and what had happened, and then he'd been escorted out and given a clipboard with forms to complete. Standard procedure--all of it, but that didn't mean he liked it. That didn't mean he liked trusting his most precious possessions with strangers--no matter how _trained_ they seemed to be. That didn't mean he liked being completely uninvolved when he was used to having final say in everything in his boys' lives.

Making Dean leave had been cruel, but John couldn't deny that he was glad he'd made the decision. He could already tell that guilt was eating Dean alive, and he needed Dean sharp and focused, not wallowing and terrified. Besides, he could only handle one son's trauma right now, and Sam's seemed to be a bit more pressing.

There was little doubt in John's mind as to what the diagnosis would be. Sam's jaw was clearly broken, which was bad news. It meant a hiccup in their training; it meant a stall in the hunt. It meant a worried Dean and a needy Sam, two stressors that he really did not relish having at this point in his life.

But seeing Sam so pale—it'd made the kid look so young. And John couldn't help but think that it shouldn't have to be like that, that his little boy shouldn't have to feel that pain.

It was still Sam's fault, though, he tried to remind himself. The boy was demanding too much and it was distracting him. This was just more evidence that his boys needed structure, they needed the orders. Sam's wayward interests were compromising his skills, and next time it might not just be a guilty Dean and a broken-jawed Sam had to worry about.

He was so absorbed in thought that he barely recognized the alias he'd printed on the forms just seconds before.

"Sir?" the doctor was asking, nearly on top of John. "Sir, I'm Dr. Howard."

Scrambling John stood, trying to hide how flustered he was. "Yes," he said. "Can you tell me about my son?"

"Mr...uh, Garrity," the doctor said, glancing again at his clipboard. "Your son suffered a fracture of his lower jaw. X-rays show that the displacement was quite severe."

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, John tried to focus on the doctor's words, on the calm tone of his voice. This wasn't a man telling him his son was in critical condition. This man hardly seemed frazzled. That could only bode well for Sam's recovery. "So, what do you do? He'll be okay?"

Dr. Howard nodded. "He'll be fine, of course, but we will have to wire his jaw shut in order to allow the bones to heal. If the break had been much worse, we would have had to go with surgery, but I'm confident that wiring will do the trick. It's not a pleasant procedure, but it's fairly routine and it will only require a local anesthetic. I'm afraid he'll have to have it wired for nearly six weeks after he's released, which isn't fun for anyone."

John winced a little. Sammy would take poorly to this, no doubt blaming the extensive training load John heaped upon them as responsible for his condition.

The doctor smiled lightly. "While it will require extra care for Sam--grinding his food up so he can drink it--it also does afford most parents with more silence than usual."

Looking up, John caught the twinkle in the doctor's eye, and couldn't help but smile himself. A quiet Sam? A Sam who couldn't voice his opinion whenever he wanted, in whatever tone he wanted? He didn't wish harm to come to his son, but maybe a little silence would be good for _all_ of them. "When can I see him?"

"Well, he's resting right now. We put him on some rather strong pain medication, because like I said, it's a rather painful break, and we also didn't want him to injure his jaw further. We're getting prepped for the procedure, but you can see him for a few minutes before we're ready to take him up."

John nodded. "I'd appreciate that."

Dr. Howard smiled benignly. "Right this way."

-o-

The first thing John noticed was that his son still looked awful. The kid was pale and his jaw was still clearly broken--only now that he was clad in the generic hospital garb, he looked even worse, sicker, with his mop of dark hair standing out starkly. Moreover, he was stuck up in a neck brace, which looked terribly uncomfortable for the kid. John's stomach turned over with guilt, wondering if maybe this _was_ his fault.

The second thing John noticed was that Sam was most undoubtedly high. It took his usually alert son a minute to process his presence, but when recognition lit in Sam's eyes, a sloppy half grin lit up his face. "Dad!" he said, overly bright. The kid tried to sit up, but found it difficult with his neck immobilized.

John winced. "Are you sure you should be talking?" he asked, inching closer to the bed.

Sam didn't appear concerned. "They just said not to open my mouth too far," Sam informed him quite seriously. The problem was that the neck brace seemed to hinder his ability to talk, making his slurred words stunted and awkward. "I broke my jaw."

"I know," John said simply, studying Sam. It was odd seeing Sam like this, his eyes unfocused and his disposition relaxed. Lately it seemed that Sam was all seriousness, always assessing, always critiquing, always being contrary. "You feel okay?"

The grin reappeared. "They gave me something for the pain," Sam told him. "Feels good. I can't even feel my jaw." To prove his point, Sam's hand went up to his face, touching it.

John moved forward quickly, grabbing his son's hand swiftly and putting it back on the bed. "I don't think they want you touching it."

Sam shrugged, or attempted to anyway, nonplussed. "I think Dean would _love _this stuff."

Sinking into the chair by Sam's bed, John sighed. "He probably would," he agreed.

Sam turned his body to look at him, rolling his large eyes up to meet John's. "They say I won't be able to talk really well after they wire my jaw," Sam said, a sudden somberness in his tone. "So I just wanted to say--to say that I'm sorry, Dad."

John raised his eyebrows. Loopy, unusually happy Sam was one thing, but now an apologizing Sam? Just how much pain medication had they put his son on? "For what?" he asked hesitantly.

"For not paying attention," he said. "I didn't want to spar, and I always feel like you're watching me. You and Dean. Sizing me up. Making sure I'm up to it. And I don't want to fail you. I let that get in my way. And I failed you anyway. So I'm sorry."

The apology left John speechless and he stared at his son, his own mouth hanging open slightly. High or not, he hadn't expected that. Not from his defiant son, not from his son who never agreed with him on anything. He thought Sam was indifferent toward training, purposefully negative--the idea that there was something else going on in Sam's head--it had never occurred to him. The fact that Sam was afraid of failing just as much as John himself was--he didn't know what to make of it.

Sam's eyes rolled away and he let his body flop stiffly back to the bed. He laughed suddenly. "You're going to have to feed me through a straw," he said. "I'm not so sure that pizza will taste very good blended."

For a moment, John just stared at him, dumbfounded. "Well, don't worry about that quite yet," he said finally, trying to smile.

Before Sam could think of something else to ramble about, the door opened. John turned, looking at the nurse standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Garrity?" she asked, a little tentative. "May I have a word with you in the hall?"

"Yeah," John said, almost a little grateful for the reprieve. Dealing with Sam when he was obstinate made him angry; dealing with Sam when he was apologetic--well, that was just not something John ever knew how to deal with. He stood, patting Sam lightly on the arm. "Just take it easy."

Sam grinned up at him again, this time letting his eyes close.

With a sad smile, John sighed, and made his way out to the hallway. He found the nurse waiting for him, a clipboard in hand, a furrow in her brow.

"Mr. Garrity, there's been a flag raised on your insurance," she said quietly. "Apparently the policy number you filed with us is stolen."

John's hear skipped a beat, and it took his years of lying and subterfuge to not flinch. Instead, he let his own brow crease. "What?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

She swallowed, clearly unnerved. "The policy has been reported as stolen--the insurance company is holding all claims under this policy until further investigation can be done. I'm sorry, but I have to ask you what you know about this."

"What could I possibly know about this?" John asked, letting his voice rise with anger. The lie was so polished, that he nearly believed it himself, sometimes. "I work hard to keep me and my boys afloat. That insurance costs me an arm and a leg and if the company has some kind of hold on it, that's _their_ problem, not mine. I've always been in good standing with the company--I always make my payments, so they sure as hell better be willing to support us now that we need it."

Her smile flickered uncomfortably. "Perhaps you should call the company yourself," she suggested. She hesitated.

John knew that look. He knew it all too well. It wasn't just the insurance she wanted to know about.

"We've found some inconsistencies with Sam's medical background that you filled out," she said slowly, looking at the clipboard. "Given the x-rays we performed and upon physical examination, we've found some things you haven't accounted for."

John played dumb. "I'm sorry, but your point is?"

She smiled wanly. "Perhaps there are some things you left out of his medical history? Other injuries or procedures Sam has undergone."

John scowled. "My son needs me—"

"Please, Mr. Garrity," she said. "I would very much like you to think harder."

Tightening his jaw, John strained for calm. "My son is a teenage boy," he ground out. "He enjoys high risk sports—skateboarding, weird bike tricks. I can't count the number injuries I've caught him with, much less the ones he's managed to hide from me."

She looked unconvinced and held out the clipboard. "I'll be back for it in an hour," she said shortly, and her meaning was not lost on John.

He took the clipboard, and turned to head back to Sam.

"The waiting room, Mr. Garrity," she said. "Sam needs his rest."

He wanted to argue, but knew it wasn't the time or place. With one last look of contempt, he allowed himself to be ushered back to the waiting room.

Upon arrival, Dean practically charged him, his eyes wide and pleading. "So?" he prompted, anxious and jittery.

John ran a weary hand over his face. Between Sam's broken jaw and stoned behavior and Dean's skittish guilt, this was turning out to be one hell of a day.

-o-

The waiting room was a terrible place, made worse by the fact that his father wasn't there, that no one was there who could tell him anything at all, and all Dean could do was wait.

He'd parked the car like his father had told him. The lot had been full and the ramp had been small and winding, making it difficult to hurry like he wanted to. Because he needed to know that Sam was okay. Finding the emergency room from the roof of the parking garage took time, too much time, and Dean had been positively crestfallen when he found no sign of his father in the waiting room.

Dean's nerves had led him to pacing when he finally caught sight of his father's weary face. Without hesitation, Dean moved to him, suddenly terrified by the look on his father's face. His father rarely looked happy, but he'd been hoping for something a bit more relieved, a bit less anxious.

"So?" Dean asked, prompting him when his father seemed reluctant to speak.

"He'll be fine," his father replied. "A broken jaw, just like we thought. They're going to be wiring it shut soon."

There seemed to be more, there had to be more--that alone didn't explain his father's tone. Something else had to be wrong, there had to be some other complication, something they hadn't seen. "So he'll be okay?"

John nodded dismissively. "He'll be fine. He won't be able to open his mouth for a few weeks, but he'll cope just fine."

Tense, Dean couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. If everything was _fine_, if Sam was _okay_, then his father wouldn't look like _that_, wouldn't look like the world was taking another swipe at him, wouldn't look like things were a heartbeat away from falling apart.

Sighing, John pulled Dean to the side of the room, setting them both in identical plastic chairs. Once seated, he leveled Dean with a serious gaze. "Once Sam is awake and oriented, I want to get out of here," John told him quietly. "The insurance is falling through and they're already asking all the wrong questions. We were done here, anyway. We'll make sure Sam's doped up on pain meds and get out of town as fast as we can. I caught wind of a haunting up in North Dakota--that should do it."

Dean's brow creased, concerned. Few things sparked Dean to question his father, but his baby brother's well being was one of them. He knew his father needed him to follow orders, but his father clearly missed the point sometimes. Dean would be the one doing most of the Sammy-watching, and he didn't think he could handle seeing the kid in pain. "Are you sure Sam's going to be ready to travel?"

His father looked at him, a little surprised. "The wiring is a simple procedure," he said. "And we'll just have to invest in a lot of protein shakes--stuff he can drink to keep his strength up."

"Maybe we should just stay here for awhile, though," Dean said. "Sounds like they want to keep him overnight at least."

"Which is exactly why we need to go," his dad came back sharply. He glanced around, nervous. "The longer they keep Sam, the more suspicious they're going to be. If we're not careful they'll take our visiting rights away and start some kind of inquiry. Is that what you want? Is that what you think Sam needs?"

Reluctantly, Dean shook his head, feeling guilty and chagrined. There was a reason he knew not to question his father--because no matter how harsh his father could seem, no matter how abrupt his tactics were, they were always with the intention of keeping Sam and himself safe. "Okay," Dean said. "What do you want me to do?"

The fire in John's eyes abated, and he swallowed. "Go back to the apartment. Pack up the car and get things ready to go. Fill her up with gas--you know the routine. And be sure you get some food—protein shakes and other liquids and nab some glasses and straws, too. Anything Sam might need. By the time you get back here, hopefully Sam will be done and awake. All we need is to make sure he's alert and we can take off."

Dean nodded tightly, but he couldn't help feeling like something was wrong--very wrong. They'd had tight spots before--they'd run from well-intentioned law enforcement and government officials more than Dean liked to think about, much more than they tried to let on to Sam. Usually it was just a concerned teacher, or a hunt that went dicey. This time--it was Dean's fault. Dean had hit his brother. Sam would miss out on all the things he'd wanted to do--to finish his classes, pass his tests--and all because Dean hadn't been careful.

More than that, his father was stressed now--again, which was never a good thing. His father's life was full of enough things to worry about, and now another town would be off-limits in the future. The Winchesters didn't exactly make a lot of friends, but they avoided making enemies if they could, and thanks to Dean's wayward fist, they'd just racked up another list of possible risks.

Dejected, and feeling guilty as hell, Dean made his way to the car. Breaking out of hospitals was always first on his mind when he was stuck in them; but with Sam, he would have rather seen this through.

He shook his head. Too late for that now.

Too late for much of anything except following orders and getting the hell out of Dodge.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I always get nervous after a good response to a first chapter. My second chapters never seem as good as the first :) That said, thank you to everyone who took the time to drop a note. I'm always thrilled when limpness is loved. Continued thanks to those who made this possible, mostly Rachelly and sendintheclowns, who put up with a LOT from me.

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PART TWO

It seemed like hours later when the doctor finally came back out. Dean had left, and John had taken up residence in the waiting room, unmoving and keeping himself purposefully impassive. He had nothing to do, and he refused to show any excessive signs of outward emotion. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself.

Dr. Howard looked much the same, a genial smile on his face as he approached John and took the seat next to him. "Well, the procedure went just fine. The alignment looks good and I don't think there'll be any problems with his healing."

John felt himself relax marginally--Sammy's well being was on worry off his list.

"We've got him back in his room for now, and he's resting," the doctor explained. He hesitated a little, shaking his head. "The boy is surprisingly sensitive to the pain meds. We gave him a good dose of morphine to help him control the pain, and he is having an unusually strong reaction to it. He may seem a bit...out of it until it wears off, but I think he'll probably sleep through most of it--it's made him rather drowsy. I'll make him out a prescription for some more, but at a much lesser dose. The first few days the injury will still be quite painful."

John nodded curtly.

Dr. Howard scribbled something on his notepad and ripped it off for John. "I'll go ahead and give this to you now. You can get it filled at the hospital pharmacy. You'll have to crush up his pills for him to take in water, but we'll talk more about that with his aftercare instructions. We're going to keep him overnight just to monitor him and we'll be releasing him in the morning."

"Can I see him?"

The doctor nodded. "I think you remember the room?"

John nodded his thanks to the doctor and took off down the hall. Finding Sam's room was easy enough, and when he opened the door, he found the lights were dimmed and the room was quiet. Sam appeared to be sleeping on the bed, his head tilted away from the doorway.

Quietly, John made his way to his son's side. In all the chaos of the day, his fears about the insurance, about CPS, this much felt good. Part of him had always known Sam's injury wasn't life threatening. But another part of him, a part he liked to try to deny, to contain, had hated seeing his child in pain, had hated seeing his little boy laid out on his back from something as trivial as _training_.

He knew all his reasons _why_--he'd stayed up nights and told them to himself time and time again. How the boys had to be prepared, they had to be trained and able, because if they weren't, then they might never be safe. And John couldn't risk anyone else in his family. He wouldn't. Their safety came first. Above their happiness, above everything.

But sometimes the things he did to keep them safe, to make them ready--they were risks in and of themselves. It was Sam's sloppiness that started this disaster to begin with, but John knew his son. He knew his boy's sloppiness wasn't just inattentiveness or lack of effort. It was just...sloppiness. Teenage angst compounded by hormones or some equally elusive crap John had hoped to avoid entirely. He'd gotten off easy with Dean--with Sam, it seemed like he was going to make up for his brother's stalwart obedience.

Sighing, he sunk down into the chair by Sam's side. He watched his youngest for a long moment, studying the soft features of his face, the lightness of his hair on his head. It seemed like it had been years since he'd done this, since he'd taken the time to watch his boy. Wasn't it only yesterday that he was born? That Mary had held the infant in his arms and looked up at John telling him how perfect he was?

He should let his son sleep--the kid definitely looked like he needed it--but it wasn't possible. He needed to get Sam awake and ready if they were going to make it out of here together.

"Sam?" he asked into the darkness.

Nothing happened.

"Sam?" he asked again, louder this time, his voice a bit more stern.

At that, Sam stirred slightly, shifting under the sheet.

"Sam, wake up," he said, almost making it an order.

Sam's head turned at that, rolling toward his father. Finally Sam's eyes opened, just barely, slits of green that looked even more unfocused than before.

He forced a smile. "Hey, Sammy," he said, leaning over the bed so his son could see him. "You with me, kiddo?"

Sam blinked.

John waited, forcing himself to be patient. With a gentle hand, he smoothed down Sam's hair. "Sammy?"

Sam blinked again, and his lips tried to move, but the words got fumbled, coming out in an unintelligible mumble.

With considerable effort, John smiled. "You've got your jaw wired shut there, kiddo."

Hazy, confused eyes looked up at him, imploring, and it was like Sam was five years old again. His son didn't have to speak to be able to ask _why_.

"Sparring accident," John informed him. "You'll remember once the drugs work their way out of your system. You really are a lightweight sometimes."

The affection in John's voice was lost on Sam, as was just about everything he was saying. Resigned, John pulled his hand away. "Just get some sleep, okay? When Dean gets back we're going to have to make a break for it, so I need you to be rested. Understood?"

John didn't figure Sam really got any of that, but his youngest son let his eyes droop and John's shoulders sagged. The boy opened his eyes once more, looking beseeching, and John just smiled, more than a little warily. "Sleep," he ordered, soft and gentle and he watched with a fatherly knowledge when Sam did.

For once, without question, without complaint, Sam just did. John wondered when he'd lost that power over his son, when he stopped speaking a language that Sam understood. Dean had been difficult--cocky and loose at times--but nothing like Sam. Dean was hormones and a desire for blood and guns.

Sam was...Sam was something else entirely. Something John just didn't know how to deal with. Maybe, in another life, he could have done it. He could have lauded Sam's grades and gone to all his silly little soccer games and debate matches.

Too bad he didn't have another life, and neither did Sam. As soon as they all accepted that, the better things would be.

It wasn't just hunts that kept John on the move. It was the fear of letting any of them grow roots, of getting attached. Because John knew what it was like to lose something like that. And he wasn't going to do it again, and he would do everything he could to keep his sons from it as well.

Someday, Sam would understand, he thought, sitting back in his chair.

Someday.

-o-

In the long years of his life, Dean had acquired many skills. He could hunt, he could lie with the best of them, he could shoot pool like a pro, and he could tell the difference between a ghost and a poltergeist. He was smooth with women, he was a quick talker, and he could get into just about any place he wanted--crime scene or club. He was also skilled in the art of packing quickly.

Not that there was ever much to pack. Their lifestyle didn't afford many luxuries, and _stuff_ was among the things that he and Sam had simply learned to go without. Dean's main source of entertainment was TV when he wasn't training, and the occasional magazine was easy enough to swipe and expendable enough to leave behind. Packing his stuff only required a quick sweep of the room, stuffing rumpled clothing into his well-worn duffels.

Packing for his father was even quicker, mostly because his father never really unpacked. His father's clothes were kept rolled up in the military-style duffle, and his bag of toiletries was always ready to go. The rest of his father's stuff was elementary--mostly because he never seemed to have anything. While his father always seemed to have a book with him, Dean could never find them, and could only assume his father had them stashed somewhere, secured and ready to go.

For Sam, it was both harder and simpler. While Sam was far neater than Dean, with his clothes folded into the drawers and his books stacked neatly on the desk, he also had never learned the value of letting things go. Sam wanted to keep everything--he always had, even as a little kid. Be it rocks or leaves or stray kittens, Sam wanted to haul it all around with him, as though it all had some deep significance that Sam couldn't bear to live without. While his kid brother had outgrown rocks (mostly, though Dean still suspected his brother had small stashes hidden throughout his things), now it was books. Sam wanted to keep all the books he could, wanted to buy them, read them, mark them. It was obsessive really, and completely ridiculous and impractical. Most books were easily expendable and better off kept in libraries for the rare occasion that they were needed. And books on non-supernatural things? Made no sense at all. Books on science and math and English literature--those were nothing more than coasters and door stops and Dean could never understand Sam's fondness for them.

It would have been simple, he supposed, to leave Sam's current stash behind. His father was prone to weeding it out when he got the chance, much to Sam's protestations, and it wasn't like Dean had time to pack _everything_. But as he looked at Sam's neat stacks, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not when Sam was in the hospital from an injury _Dean _had given him.

It wasn't really his fault, not in the truest sense, and Dean knew that. He knew Sam should have been paying attention. He knew his father shouldn't have been so demanding. But none of that changed what it felt like when his hand made contact with Sam's face, the way Sam had fallen hard to the ground, the look of pain while he was laying there.

That wasn't okay, and it shouldn't have happened, and Dean just didn't know how to fix it.

With a sigh, he packed Sam's things, all of them, stowing them in the trunk as best he could. When the home was cleared out of all items worth taking, he didn't even look back as he closed the door behind him, got in the car, and drove back toward the hospital.

-o-

Hating hospitals was one of the more ordinary aspects of John Winchester. Even before his life as a hunter, he had loathed the places--places of sickness and suffering and death. Logically, of course, he understood their function. That didn't mean he liked stepping in one. In fact, Mary had nearly divorced him over his refusal to attend birthing classes while she was pregnant with Dean. It wasn't so much the nature of the topic (though John had to admit, learning about how a baby was going to _come out_ of his wife made him queasy), but rather the place. A hospital. He'd never come to a hospital for anything good.

There were only two exceptions to that rule: the birth of both his boys, which, in the end, had been rewarding enough to make him forget the rule entirely.

He couldn't forget now. Sam wasn't that bad off, but all the real world dangers were encroaching in on his makeshift family, and he'd lost enough. He wouldn't lose his boys--not to spirits, not to demons, not to well-intentioned government workers.

He'd taken to pacing, but it was getting him nowhere. Feeling frustrated, he sank back to the chair by Sam's bed, again shaking his boy's shoulder. The kid looked exhausted--he always had been a lightweight with painkillers--but John needed to keep him awake for their great escape.

Calling Sam awake was a bit of an exaggeration. Sure, Sam's eyes were open and he could respond blearily to questions, but the kid was hardly coherent as he mumbled out answers through his wired jaw.

He'd been hoping for a bit more awareness, but he'd seen the nurses looking at him. They didn't have time to linger. He had to take Sam and run or he may never get the chance. The doctor had given Sam another look over and said he was progressing nicely, that all Sam needed was to sleep off the pain meds before they talked seriously about how to care for Sam in his current condition. As long as Sam was cleared medically, John would much rather take his chances on the road than with CPS.

Besides, he thought to himself, maybe a sleeping Sam would make the escape a little easier. Less protesting from his son could only make their escape quieter.

Nervously, he glanced at his watch. Dean should be back by now--Dean needed to be back by now. He couldn't pull off the escape by himself--he'd need his son as the distraction, not to mention that Dean had the getaway car.

Then he heard it--a sound at the door. Tensed, he turned, keeping his face neutral. The nurses seemed spooked enough as it was; he certainly didn't need to rouse their suspicions anymore.

But his fear was unwarranted--nothing more than paranoia--and John almost wondered if that was the case more often than not.

"Car's in the ramp, just by the door," Dean said simply. "How do you want to pull this off?"

John checked his watch, thinking back to the nurses' periodic checks. "We'll wait five minutes," he said. "Let the nurses give Sam one more once over. We've still got an hour or so before the doc is coming back with more instructions on how to take care of Sam. We need to be out of here by then--not give them the chance to bring in social services or some shrink."

Dean's face looked strained, and John could tell these past few hours had been tough on his oldest. From the sparring accident to the sudden escape--it was a lot to deal with, even for a young man as trained and solid as Dean was. In some ways, Sam was the lucky one. With the kid so high on medication, it was unlikely that he'd even be aware what they were doing. Which, really, would save John from the headache of hearing Sam complain about being forced to move again.

"How are we going to get him out?"

This was the question John had been circling back to while Dean was packing. Knowing they had to leave was one thing; determining the best escape plan was another entirely.

"Simple diversion," he said. "I'll need you to cause some chaos, get half the floor looking the other way, and I'll get Sam out. Once we're clear, you come join us and we'll high tail it out of here."

Dean looked uncertain. "Maybe I should stay with Sam," he suggested.

John just shook his head. "The hospital already is suspicious of me. It needs to be you or I may end up in more trouble than we can get out of right now. You have some ideas?"

Warily, Dean nodded, and John felt his pride swell. "That's my boy," he said, more relieved than he was willing to let on.

They fell silent, both lingering by Sam's side.

"He's going to be okay," John said suddenly. "You know that, right?"

Dean looked up at him and almost smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

If it was a lie, it was one they were both buying into.

-o-

When the nurse came, Dean was ready. He watched carefully as she checked Sam over, even smiling broadly at her as she jotted her notes on Sam's chart. "He's looking good," she said. "The doctor will be around sometime soon to discuss post-hospital care with you both. They're very important with injuries like Sam's."

"I'm sure they are," Dean replied easily, hardly hearing what she was saying.

He watched her go, his father a silent presence in the corner. When she was gone, he glanced at his father, who nodded, and Dean made his way to the door.

Stepping out, he eased himself nonchalantly toward the nurse's station.

He eyed the nurses there, all intent on their duties, and then let his eyes wander to the various visitors milling about. He needed the right mark, the one who would respond the way he wanted--compassionate and concerned and--

There she was.

Middle aged, face lined with fine wrinkles around her eyes. Her brown hair was graying on the edges, pulled back into a ponytail that fell lightly on her back. She wore a pink floral shirt and khaki shorts that were long on her pudgy legs.

Clearing his face, he plastered on a look of wonder, making his eyes as Sam-like as he could. Then he walked up to her, put a hand on her arm and said, "Mom?"

The woman blinked, once, twice, taking him in. "Excuse me--?"

Dean's face brightened with a smile. "Mom!" he exclaimed, making his voice loud enough to be heard over the din.

She looked confused, uncertain, and she tried to pull away. "Sweetie, I think you've got--"

"Is Dad okay?" he prompted. "We've been waiting for you."

The woman was stammering now, trying to step away and looking somewhat desperately at the people around her. "I really think--"

"Mom, you _have_ to talk to me about this!" he said, nearly yelling now. "Dad nearly _died_! I know he cheated on you, but the man _loves_ you!"

People were staring now, just like he wanted. She was shaking her head. "I don't know--"

Dean stepped it up a notch, pulling tears to his eyes and letting his voice go hysterical. "I can't belive it!" he exclaimed. "I need you two! I need you _together_! Don't do this to me!"

The woman was nearly terrified now, and staff was approaching them. A hand was on his shoulder, gentle, and Dean whirled in full on hysteria.

"No! Please! Mom!"

And that was all it took for the floor to break out into chaos.

-o-

Dean was good. Even stressed, even worried, even halfway drowned in guilt, his son was good. A con artist in the truest sense of the word, his skill easily surpassed John's own with a flair and ease that any tried and true professional could appreciate.

By the time John reached the stairwell, Sam neatly in tow and hunched over in his wheelchair, the hall was nearly cleared, intent on the chaos erupting on the opposite side of the ward. Things were going well--very well--but John couldn't afford to waste time. Swiftly, he pulled Sam up, and the boy grunted, wobbling on his feet.

"We need to walk from here," he said, his voice rushed and hushed.

Maybe it was the urgency in his voice or maybe Sam could follow orders better than John sometimes gave him credit for, because the teenager steadied himself, his brow furrowing.

"We're only down two levels," John assured him.

Halfway down the first flight of stairs, Sam's knees gave way, and he felt his son's warm body press hard against him, sliding down. He cursed, catching the boy. Eschewing fears of being seen, he looped his arm under Sam's legs and swiftly brought him up, cradled against his chest. His son was large, gangly, and it was an awkward process, but John didn't even hesitate.

At the bottom floor, he deposited Sam on the ground, looking intently at the boy's face. "You need to walk out of here," he said. "Do you understand?"

Sam blinked once, his pupils still dilated with sedative, but the boy nodded.

"Good boy," John coached, keeping an arm firmly around Sam's shoulders. Somehow they moved quickly, fast and quietly out the hospital, past the admittance desk and all the waiting patients.

John didn't realize he was holding his breath until Sam was in the backseat of the Impala, slumped half asleep against the seat.

Settling himself in the driver's seat, he drew a deep breath and willed his heart to calm. Its pounding didn't ease, not until Dean slid into the back beside Sam, not until the hospital was firmly in his rearview mirror and the open road lay flat before him.

-o-

Home had never really been a permanent thing for Dean, at least not for most of his life. It was a fantasy, he felt, one that most normal people had, and one that he found ridiculous and naive. Because he knew better. He knew anything good could be taken away, could be lost. He knew not to trust in places, in things, in much of anything, because when it went away, it hurt like hell.

Still, if there was anything in his life that resembled a home, it wasn't the rundown string of motels and apartments their father took them, too. Those were all just backdrop, equally meaningless and nonessential to his life. They had no sentiment for him, no lingering affect. The only place that did--the only _thing_ that did--was the Impala.

The smell of leather seats on a summer's day was the aroma that made him feel secure, safe. The vast bench in the back had been as much his playground as anything had been, and riding up front had been his coveted right since he was old enough to buckle himself in.

It was the place they always ended up, the place they fled to. The only constant, the way they got from A to B to C and beyond.

Cooped up in the backseat, Sam leaned against him, it wasn't offering him much comfort now. Not when this was _his_ fault. Every moan Sammy made, every look his dad gave him in the rearview mirror just confirmed it.

His snark was gone, and he could think of nothing to say. John, for his part, made no attempts at conversation. His father was a man of few words, and when he spoke, it was often orders or research, and Dean had grown accustomed to the man's silence.

Not this time.

Every passing minute was torture; every passing mile was another testament to his failure. He desperately wished that Sam would wake up—not just to see if his brother was okay, but to help fill the growing void that Dean felt between himself and his father.

No such luck.

They drove on all night, not stopping and Dean, his arm still wrapped protectively around his younger sibling, soon found he couldn't keep his eyes open. He felt himself drifting, quietly into the night, and he didn't have the will to stop himself.

-o-

He opened his eyes to blinding light and the uneasy sensation that they were no longer moving.

Squinting, he saw his father climbing out of the front seat, riffling through his wallet.

Looking up, his father made eye contact, and Dean could see that they had stopped in a town Dean didn't recognize. They were parked on a deserted street, the row of warehouses clearly long abandoned.

"I'm going into town to buy supplies," his father informed him. "You stay here with Sam. If anyone comes along, drive two miles toward town. Make sure Sam wakes up and feed him. Give him his painkillers first, though. Understood?"

Dean just nodded.

"I don't think I'll be long," his father said, shoving the wallet back in his pocket.

"Yes, sir," Dean said, and he watched his father disappear down the road.

Sighing, Dean looked toward his brother. Sam was still out like a light, sprawled against the seat.

Turning his gaze to the barren surroundings, Dean let his head rest against the seat. At least the day couldn't get much worse.

-o-

Sam woke up to pain.

A lot of it. Like all the nerves in his mouth were on fire at once. A deep throb stretched back through his skull, pounding with the rhythm of his all-too-fast heartbeat.

Disoriented, he tried to open his eyes, to figure out where he was, what had happened.

His vision, though, was bleary, and images swirled in his line of sight. Black leather. Bug splattered windows. The Impala.

So why did it hurt so much?

Suddenly, a hand was on his arm, warm, reassuring. Dean.

Sam blinked, turning his head to his brother's face.

His brother smiled a little, but it was a shadow of its usual self. There was something in it, something sad, resigned. Guilty.

Then Sam remembered. Sparring--the punch--his jaw.

Memory flashed and pain seared again as he tried to open his mouth. His jaw. They'd wired it shut.

"Don't try to talk," Dean advised, clearly reading Sam's efforts. "They've wired you shut, remember?"

Stilling, Sam looked up at him and nodded morosely.

"They said it would probably hurt for awhile."

Sam nodded again, trying not to make it seem too obvious.

"You've been out for nearly six hours now. The pain meds did a number on you," Dean explained. He was foraging with one hand in a bag on the seat. "But the doc says you'd probably need them for awhile yet, until your jaw starts to heal."

Sam squinted at him, uncertain of how to respond.

Dean pulled out a bottle of pills, grinning a little. "You ready for some more?"

Pride was a funny thing, and Sam often liked to have it. He liked to seem strong, able, impenetrable, just like his father and Dean. He'd spent too many years being babied, and as much as he resisted the lifestyle, Sam didn't like admitting weakness to them.

The throbbing in his skull, however, was enough to make him concede the point. Besides, he'd probably been drooling all over Dean for the last six hours, so pride was pretty much a moot point right then. He nodded.

"I figured," Dean said, but his tone was friendly, not mocking. He popped the top, extracting two pills.

Sam eyed them anxiously. But his brother then proceeded to pull out a small glass and took out a spoon, easily grinding the two pills to powder before pouring water on top of them. Pulling out a straw, his brother offered him the drink.

"It's a little awkward," Dean said. "But it's better than nothing."

Getting the straw between his lips was a difficult process, and he nearly fumbled the glass, but the water felt good going down and with the throbbing in his head, he'd take anything he could get.

-o-

Taking care of Sam wasn't new for Dean, though having Sam so silent while he did it was a bit of a change. It made Dean uncomfortable, a constant reminder that _he _was to blame, so he talked twice as much to try to make up the difference.

Sam seemed to listen, half hearted, and Dean could only hope the painkillers were kicking in. He couldn't totally blame Sam for wanting to ignore him, but still, Dean couldn't seem to stop talking.

"We'll try grinding up cheeseburgers sometime," Dean said. "Though the bun might get more than a little mushy with the ketchup."

Sam had been tracking his comments, and at that his brother's face paled.

"Sorry," Dean said sheepishly. "Too graphic?"

But Sam didn't respond to the humor, nor did his color improve. If anything, Sam paled more, his body going slightly rigid.

"Sam?"

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

Sam had been in pain, a little whiny and impossible to understand, but Dean had followed orders perfectly. He'd broken up the pills in Sam's water and helped Sam drink it. He'd even talked his reluctant kid brother into downing half a protein shake. All of these were within the confines of his father's orders.

Sam's reaction, however, was not.

His brother paled further, taking his already waxy skin to a near translucent shade. Then, before Dean could even ask the question, Sam's eyes went wide and his body convulsed. At first, Dean thought he was coughing, maybe, but then his brother convulsed again, pitching forward, his hands flailing all over the place.

Frightened, Dean went to catch his brother, trying to bring his brother back up to look him in the eye. "Sam? Sammy? What is it?"

If he'd been thinking, he would have realized the ridiculousness of his question. Sam wasn't able to verbalize much anyway right now, not with his jaw wired as tightly shut as it was. But Dean wasn't thinking, not clearly anyway, because all he knew was that something was wrong with Sam and he didn't have a clue what.

Sam's body refused to cooperate, keeling forward with a ferocity that Dean wouldn't have thought his brother capable of in his weakened condition.

Panicked, Dean kneeled low, desperately seeking his brother's face to better assess what was wrong. The broken jaw was supposed to be fine--inconvenient, painful, but _fine_. But this wasn't fine at all.

On his knees, he finally got a look into Sam's face and his heart skipped a beat at what he saw.

Sam's eyes were bulging, his face unnaturally red and his hands were fumbling desperately at his throat. His hair was falling in his face, but couldn't obscure the obvious terror written all over.

Dean's brain worked sluggishly as he came to all the conclusions he didn't want to realize.

Sam was choking. But on what? He'd swallowed the protein shake and the water--he hadn't been eating for a good five minutes. What could Sam possibly--

Then something trickled from Sam's mouth--something brownish, something a little chunky--

Then Dean understood.

Sam was throwing up. Sam was throwing up and couldn't open his mouth to let the vomit out.

Sam was choking on his own vomit.

Frantic, Dean did the first thing he could think of, thumping hard on Sam's back. Sam's body jerked with the motion, but nothing changed. Nothing except Sam's eyes, which were fading from panic to something else--something like resignation--and even that was fading fast--and Dean didn't want to know to what.

Fumbling now, Dean moved his hands to Sam's mouth, trying to pry open Sam's lips, but Sam's jaw refused to budge. The wiring had done its job--all too well--and the procedure used to fix Sam's jaw was about ready to kill his little brother. Feeling along Sam's teeth, he ignored the trickle of vomit that continued to make its way out, and he focused on finding the wire. He needed to open Sam's mouth somehow, and if he could pry it open, he'd have to sever the wire. It would hurt like hell, Dean didn't doubt that, but he was pretty sure Sam would forgive him.

If Sam was even awake by then.

As his fingers found the wire, Sam was sagging forward, his eyelids falling heavily over his eyes and Dean knew he was running out of time.

Worse yet, the wire wouldn't give. Clearly it was made to withstand the daily grind, which normally would be great if his brother wasn't_ choking to death_.

Sam was nearly limp now, his eyelids fluttering uselessly and his hands dangling onto the car seat.

Dean needed to cut the wire--_now_.

His eyes scanned the inside of the Impala, looking for something, anything--all he could see was Sam's bag of things on the floor by his feet, and his own rumpled bag of clothes next to it. Sam's prescription was on the seat, and the half finished protein shake was next to it. Nothing that would help him.

The trunk. They had knives in the trunk. Knives and tools and sharp things designed to cut through things--things like metal.

Desperate, he laid his brother down to the seat so he was resting on his side, trying not to notice the way Sam had stopped moving entirely, the way his half-open eyes seemed to be staring distantly at something Dean knew wasn't there.

Throwing the door open, Dean stumbled into the daylight. Digging in his pocket, he came up with the spare key, suddenly thankful his father had entrusted him with it. With shaking hands, he thrust the key into the hole, flinging open the trunk with such force that the entire car shook.

His fingers fumbled, searching, before closing on a knife he thought would do the job. He pulled it from its sheath, moving rapidly back to his brother. Climbing back on the seat, he sat over his brother, straddling the younger boy in a desperate attempt to gain access to Sam's mouth.

Sam's eyes were closed now, his eyelids blue and his cheeks pallid. "Come on, come on," Dean muttered, working his trembling fingers around Sam's mouth. Lifting Sam's lips out of the way, Dean carefully drew the knife close to Sam's face, all too aware of how dangerous this was. But Sam's lips were nearly purple now and he couldn't ignore how still his brother's chest was beneath him.

With movements more sure than he felt, he slipped the knife under the wire and pulled it up, relieved when the metal gave way. Frantic, he went to the other side, repeating the procedure.

Sam's mouth fell open and Dean nearly cheered with relief. Awkwardly, he tumbled off his brother, hoping to see some improvement.

But Sam remained still, his limbs dangled limply on the seat.

"No," Dean breathed. "Come on."

Cutting the wire was supposed to work. It was supposed to let Sam breathe. He hadn't thought any further ahead.

Shaking, he rolled his brother on his side, prying open Sam's slack mouth. The vomit. Sam had choked on the vomit. He had to clear it.

Normally it would have grossed him out. Touching Sam's mouth wasn't something he tended to do, and this type of physical closeness wasn't normal for anyone.

It had to be done.

Carefully and quickly, he swept his finger deep in Sam's mouth, pulling out the remnants of vomit as he went. When it seemed clear, he waited again, for something, anything, and felt himself go numb when Sam still didn't move.

He needed to do more. Now.

Pushing Sam onto his back, he leaned over his brother, tilting the kid's neck and pinching his nose. Situated, he blew in two hard breaths, relieved to see Sam's chest rise and fall.

Up and down, breathe in, breathe out.

He pulled away, waiting, watching, pressing two fingers into Sam's neck.

There was a beat, sluggish, distant, but there.

Still, Sam's chest did not move.

Dean swore.

Leaning over his brother again, he repeated the procedure. One breath, two breaths.

He pulled away, waiting.

Nothing.

Again, he moved in, pinching hard and breathing, feeling his own heart racing.

Pulling away this time, he felt it--a brush of air on his cheek--small, but there.

"Sam?" he asked, his voice near hysterics. "Sammy?"

A wheeze was his only answer, and Sam's chest rose and fell in a hitching motion. Then again.

His brother was breathing.

The relief was so strong, it brought tears to his eyes, and he struggled to make himself think.

Sam was breathing, he was alive, but he was still unconscious. In fact, his brother's pallor was still ghastly, unhealthy and frightening.

Gently, he rolled his brother back onto his side, hoping to ease Sam's breathing somewhat.

He was so intent on his brother that he didn't notice his father's presence until he spoke.

"Dean?"

Dean jumped, flinching, and looking over his shoulder at his father standing framed in the doorway.

"What the hell--?" his father's voice was somewhere between irate and terrified, a tone that normally would have Dean reeling with obedience, but this time he couldn't muster it.

"He was throwing up," Dean tried to explain, looking back at his brother, surprised at how his own voice sounded strained and breathless. "He couldn't get it out. I had to--I had to cut it."

He was aware now that his father was staring at him, blank faced and mouth open.

Dean blinked, looking up at his father, unable to move the vulnerability he knew was written on his face. "He stopped breathing," he said. "I think he needs a hospital."

At that, his father's mouth closed. Putting the supplies in the front, he moved to the backseat on the opposite side of Sam, crouching into the cab to get a better look at the younger brother. His father's steady hands touched Sam's face, under his jaw, gently lifted the eyelids. Sitting back on his heels, he appeared to think for a moment, before pulling himself out of the car.

"Get him up," he ordered. "Watch him."

His father was moving to the front seat and Dean trailed him. "Are we going to go to the hospital?"

"We're still too close," he said, sitting down hard behind the wheel.

"He wasn't _breathing_," Dean explained again.

His father's eyes flashed hard and cold up at him, so deep that he couldn't even see the concern he knew had to be laden underneath. And Dean wondered how he did it. How his father managed to turn himself off, to make his choices and stop worrying about it. No matter what.

"We go in now and they'll arrest me for sure. They'll take Sam away," his father's voice was measured. "Is that what you want?"

The question was underhanded, low, and so not fair. "No, I mean--"

"That's what they'll do," John persisted.

Dean's frustration was surging, mixing with his anger and his utter sense of fear. His dad was missing the point, was trying to subvert the point--the very real reality that Sam hadn't been _breathing_ and that it wasn't _okay_ and they needed to do _something_. Why couldn't his father just get it for once? Just concede the point? Just show his love and his own fear?

"We'll watch him, Dean," his father said, his voice a bit softer now, his eyes almost sympathetic. "We just need to put some distance between us and the hospital."

There was nothing he could say to that, no argument he could make. Frozen, his emotions swelling, he couldn't move for a long moment. His father closed the door, and Dean felt himself stiffen, willing himself not to cry. There would be no arguments here. Nothing he could say would change it.

Flicking his eyes to his brother, he sighed, letting his gaze linger. Sam's face was pale and still. His father had never put Sam at risk before--his father had always been the one to save them both, to take care of things. He could do that now. He could.

Swallowing hard, he slipped back into the back seat, avoiding his father's eyes in the mirror.

The car came to life, rumbling into the evening, and Dean pulled his brother closer, too terrified to let go.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Three day weekends are lovely--so Happy Memorial Day to those of you in the US :) I am thrilled that this means I only have TWO weeks left of work. But for now, the fic. There's one more section after this, and the intense actions is winding down as the Winchesters deal with what's happened. So hopefully, not TOO boring. Thanks again to sendintheclowns and Rachelly and to everyone who has read and/or reviewed.

* * *

PART THREE

The car had never seemed so silent. He'd driven all night before, with both boys asleep through long stretches of America's heartland. He'd always thought those nights were the quietest he'd known, sated with peace and sleeping children, all the nightmares of life kept at bay.

But that silence had been peaceful, calm, near perfect. This--this was entirely different.

The silence now was oppressive, heavy and unyielding, almost buzzing with the failures and shortcomings of the day.

The boys were in the back--Dean rigid on the seat, Sam splayed over him. His youngest was out--unconscious or sleeping, John wasn't quite sure, and it was hard to gauge the kid's state with his jaw tied shut with one of John's old button up shirts. It was a makeshift bandage, but if he wasn't going to take Sam to the hospital right away, he needed to be sure his son didn't move his jaw more than necessary.

Sam's silence was unsettling. Dean's was completely unnerving. Sam's silence was a sign of John's failure to parent. Dean's silence was a condemnation of the same. It was easy to ignore the barbs and critiques of the outside world, because they didn't understand, they didn't know what he knew, they didn't know why he did what he did.

He would have expected such a silence from Sam. His youngest never failed to find fault with the way John did things, even though Sam should know better. Sam _knew_ what was out there in the dark, he _knew _the risks, and he questioned blindly anyway.

He didn't expect it from Dean. Not from Dean, who got it, who backed him up, who he could always count on. When Dean questioned him, it really hurt, because he knew it had to be something bad.

And he understood Dean's point. He knew why his oldest was alternating stiff jawed glares at him while keeping tabs on Sam. Because Sam was _hurt_, he was vulnerable, and now he'd almost died. Dean would give up his own well being in a heartbeat; he wouldn't give up Sam's for anything.

It was his son's greatest asset, the thing John loved most about him.

It was also his son's greatest weakness, the thing that worried John more than anything else. Because when it came to Sam, Dean was blind. He couldn't grasp the bigger picture. Worse, he allowed himself to forget that he sometimes didn't _know_ the bigger picture. It made him as obstinate and difficult and dangerous as Sam himself.

What Dean couldn't see, couldn't seem to fully accept, was that social services was as formidable an opponent as any ghoul was. It could hurt them and take their family apart just as effectively as any homicidal spirit. John needed to keep his boys safe--and that meant driving on. They needed more distance before they could feel safe.

John didn't doubt that it had been a close call--given Sam's limpness and Dean's utter terror, he knew it had to have been. But Sam had been awake, coherent. He was breathing. Wiring his jaw could wait--just a little longer. He didn't like to leave his sons in pain, but a little discomfort beat being taken away any day.

His boys would understand. They would have to. John had to believe that.

-o-

Dean didn't know how much time had passed or how many miles they had driven. He didn't care. It didn't matter. In the end, any mile they drove was one too many. Any time that passed was a minute too long. Because Sam should have been in the hospital _immediately_. Hell, he never should have _left_. If they'd stayed, let Sam recover, let the hospital deal with it, Dean doubted this would have happened at all.

Some of this was his fault. He's landed the fist that broke Sam's jaw and he'd given Sam the pills and drink that had made Sam throw up. But all of it had been under orders. Orders that Sam wanted to defy.

He didn't begrudge his father his orders; Dean was used to them. On the contrary, Dean still blamed himself for both actions.

But what was unforgivable and entirely his father's fault was this ongoing exodus. This refusal to get help when Sam so _clearly_ needed it.

His only consolation was that Sam _was_ still breathing. As long as that was happening, Dean would stay silent. He wouldn't concede the point--his father's stubbornness would not be so easily forgiven--but until he could provide concrete evidence to the contrary, he would have to sit and take it.

It wasn't until Sam body shuddered, hard and long, that Dean realized that things were not over yet and that he may have all the evidence he needed. Turning his attention fully to his kid brother, Dean assessed him again. He'd been keeping tabs on him this entire time, but as he really looked at his brother, fear began to mount in his stomach.

Sam was still breathing--that much was obviously--painfully obvious from the grating noise of Sam sucking his breath in and out. It hadn't been great after the choking, but Dean had figured that choking and not breathing probably did that to someone--that while it wasn't good by any stretch of the imagination, it had been within reasonable limits. Not that he wanted to haul Sam to a hospital, but he hadn't had a good argument that Sam's condition had deteriorated to the point where there was no other choice.

At least not until now.

A little frantic, Dean shifted, trying to get a look at his brother's face. The light was fading, so it was hard to see, but even in the darkness outside, Sam's pallor was atrocious. It was paler than before, any color he had regained after vomiting had vanished again. Worse, his brow glistened in the moonlight, dampened with a sweat Dean hadn't noticed before.

He swore, fumbling at the shirt tying Sam's jaws together. He couldn't be sure what had happened, but the last time Sam had been in distress, the closed mouth had been a problem. That wasn't a risk Dean would take again.

With renewed concern for Sam, he'd nearly forgotten about his father. But his father's voice came to him, edged with worry that the older man couldn't hide. "Dean? What are you doing? We need to keep his jaw stabilized."

"He's having trouble breathing," Dean said tersely. "I think _breathing_ is more important than his broken jaw."

He didn't look for his father's reaction--he didn't care to. Not with Sam lying across him--limp and hot and wheezing.

He swore again. "He's got a fever."

"You sure?" his father asked.

Dean clenched his jaw. Running a hand over Sam's forehead, there was no doubt. Why hadn't he noticed--how long had he sat there while Sam got worse and worse? How long had he been staring at his father and letting his brother's condition slip? If he hadn't been so guilty, if he hadn't been so angry--it was just the car was so warm and the night was so quiet and Sam had been so _the same_--

Excuses. All of them. Just like his dad would offer.

He needed to accept his role in this. Accept it, and then step up to the plate. For all of Sam's questions and complaining, that was exactly what Sam would do. Sam could be a monumental pain in both their asses, but when the kid was wrong, he could admit it, even when it hurt like hell to face it. Sam's rebellion was honest at least, and even if Dean wanted to put a muzzle on Sam at times, he had to respect that much.

And practice that much. He'd been blinded by anger--just like Sam often was, just like their dad could be--and now it was time to wake up and do what he needed to do.

"We need the hospital," Dean said shortly.

"I just want to get to the next state," John replied.

"We need it _now_," Dean insisted. "Sam's breathing is getting worse, and he's got a fever."

"Can you wake him?"

The prompt frustrated Dean--he'd been holding Sam, practically manhandling him during his check and Sam hadn't even twitched. The kid hadn't even moaned when his jaw was untied.

"Dean?"

Suppressing his urge to swear again, Dean submitted to the routine. By now, Sam was across his lap, his head lolled back and his throat exposed. With one hand, Dean grasped his brother's upper arm, jostling it decidedly. "Sam? Sammy, can you hear me?"

When nothing happened, Dean moved his hand to his brother's face, being very careful as he tapped his cheekbone.

At that, Sam flinched a little, trying to curl away. Sam's efforts didn't last long and soon the kid slackened again, loose in Dean's arms

"Nothing," Dean reported. "We need to get him taken care of."

"I just want to make sure we're clear of--"

Dean's patience snapped. "_Now_, Dad," he said, surprised by the sharpness of his own voice. "Sam needs help_ now_ and I _will not_ risk waiting."

Maybe it was his tone of voice, maybe it was the harsh sounds of Sam's breathing, or maybe John Winchester just finally realized when enough was enough, but his father's hands tightened around the wheel and he pressed harder on the accelerator.

-o-

By the time John saw the exit for a hospital, the sound of Sam's breathing had worsened to a painful grate. It was as if his healthy 15-year-old son had suddenly been replaced by an asthmatic smoker having an attack. Sam's condition appeared bad enough that Dean's guilt trip wasn't even propelling him anymore--the fear for his youngest son's life was instead.

Not that he was going to say that. Not that he was going to say anything. Not that he could, even if he wanted to. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, hammering away, nearly drowning out the voices in his head--the ones that said this was all his fault, that he owed them both an apology, that he might be too late for his boys after all.

There was no room for doubts. Not in this life. Not for him.

He just needed to get Sam to a hospital, get Sam some help, and everything would be okay. It would all work out. Dean would see.

They would see.

He was so focused on his thoughts that he almost missed the final turn. But there it was, right in front of him, complete with the lights of a flashing ambulance and a lit up ER sign.

Slamming on the brakes, the car lurched forward, squealing, and he heard Dean yell in the backseat.

Breathing hard, he glanced back, seeing his oldest with one arm wrapped tightly around Sam, the other reached out in front of him to brace himself against the seat.

John half expected something snarky, something witty to come out of his son's mouth.

Dean's eyes were wide, though--wide and deadly.

Teeth clenched, John threw open his door, scrambling to the back. With the door open, he kneeled inside, reaching for Sam's long, skinny legs. "Come on," he grunted. "Let's get him in."

Movement was awkward, but Dean moved steadily to assist him, inching forward, still supporting Sam's upper body. It was just like Dean--a constant, always capable, always ready. John wasn't so naive to assume Dean's quick obedience had anything to do with him. Not at this point. This was about Sam.

John didn't like to be cowed into anything--he didn't like to give in, to show his fear--but this time, he had to agree with Dean.

-o-

He had to be drowning.

His lungs felt heavy and it was like his throat was full of sand, making each breath a painful venture, a fruitless escapade. Because each intake of air yielded no results--no relief to the burning in his lungs--and his exhalations were an exercise of torture that brought tears to his eyes.

On top of that, his jaw hurt--ached, throbbed, all of it, spreading throughout his head and eclipsing his consciousness.

He had to be dying, or dead already, because living should never be like that.

"Sam? Sam, can you hear me?"

He was_ dying_ and someone was talking to him? Even Dean at his worst couldn't be _that_ cruel. Even his father at his most stubborn wouldn't be _that_ insensitive.

"Sam?"

There was light then, and suddenly Sam's eyes were open, and he regretted it immediately. Whimpering, he tried to shy away, not even caring how much of a wuss he was being or who saw him.

"Sam?"

There was a face now, blocking some of the light. It was a woman, one Sam didn't know, and Sam wondered if she was a hallucination.

"Sam, I'm Dr. Werning," she said, but her voice was slower than her mouth, and the disconnect made Sam's head hurt even more. "Don't try to talk right now--your jaw is broken."

That triggered Sam's memory--the sparring session, the wiring, the car came flooding back on him.

Then the gagging--the protein shakes, the pills, not being able to breathe--he needed to breathe--why couldn't he breathe?

"Whoa," she said, and he became aware there were other people around him, hands on him, holding him down. "Sam, we're trying to help you."

Help him? Help him how? By letting him suffocate? And where was Dean?

"You threw up, but with your jaw wired, it couldn't come out. You choked and aspirated it into your lungs, which is why you're still having trouble."

Her words made sense, almost, but he didn't care. He didn't want to believe them. He just wanted to get out of there--now.

"We're going to have to sedate you," she said, but he couldn't see her anymore. He couldn't see anything. The light was dimming, tunneling to nothing, and he wasn't strong enough to fight it.

"We're going to put a tube up your nose to help you breathe," she was saying. "There's a high risk of infection with this type of situation..."

But Sam wasn't listening. Couldn't listen. His ears were ringing now, thrumming in his aching head, and the hands were on his face now, and he felt like he should fight them, like his father would want him too, but what was one more failure, one more failed order among so many others.

The world was dark now and the pain was distant and Sam knew no more.

-o-

Hospitals clearly weren't foreign places to him, but finding himself in a second hospital within a few days was not normal, not even in John Winchester's warped book.

Sam's broken jaw had been a nuisance, but simply more problematic with its legal ramifications than the injury itself.

This time--this time it wasn't so simple. This was more than a bothersome stop. It was more than a calculated risk. His baby boy was having trouble breathing and John was running out of ways to believe that it was going to be okay.

To make matters worse, Dean's fear was making him edgy, and his oldest son was practically pacing the entire length of the waiting room. In another situation, John might have offered comfort, might have started a conversation, but he could see it in the sideways glances Dean shot at him. Dean's fear was the only thing keeping his rage in check.

He should have expected that. It was John's fault, after all. Ever since Dean had been four years old, the first order he entrusted to Dean was to take care of Sam. He'd raised his oldest to doggedly watch his youngest. It was a survival technique, the only way he could ensure that Sam was safe. It had started when Sam was so young, so vulnerable, and John never could forget the fire that reflected in Sam's eyes that night. The way Mary had died over his crib. Sam was the one it'd been after--whatever it was--John had no doubt of that. He couldn't tell his boys that, but he needed Dean's eyes to help make sure whatever had come for Sam didn't come back again.

He should have never shouldered Dean with that, though, when Dean was just a child himself. Dean looked like a nervous father, not an older brother. John's choices had done this to his son--to both his sons. Just because Sam was the protected one, didn't mean that he hadn't suffered. Dean was a good big brother, but he could never be a father, not like any child needed. There was no doubt that that had led, in some ways, to Sam's questioning, to Sam's lack of faith. He'd lied to Sam, deceived him, and he was still paying for that in Sam's continual resistance to everything he tried to do.

Now, with Sam hurt while both boys were following _his_ orders, it was more of a mess than he knew how to deal with.

With a glance, he looked at his watch, trying to remember how long they'd been here, how long it'd been since Sam had been taken into the examination room.

Too long. Any time was too long.

Raising his head, he looked at Dean again, but his oldest was still absorbed in his trek back and forth across the room. Briefly, Dean's eyes raised and met John's, and it took everything John had not to look away in shame.

"Uh, Mr. Winchester?"

Startled, John stood. He'd been so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn't even noticed the doctor entering the room. Nerves sparking anew, he moved forward, all too aware of Dean right by his side. "Yes?"

Her smile was wan and empty. "My name is Dr. Werning," she said. "I've been treating Sam since he was brought in."

"And?"

"Sir, your son is very ill," the doctor said shortly, her lips set in a terse line. "When he vomited, it appears he aspirated it. We've suctioned out as much as we can, but since it took you awhile to bring him in, some of the particles have already settled into his lungs, which is what has led to his compromised breathing."

John knew that. Knew it well. He could still hear Sam's harsh breathing. Hell, he could still _feel_ the laboring of Sam's chest in and out, in and out, like it was his very own.

And the doctor wasn't telling him _anything_. These were just words--pointless words, words that doctors always thought were important, thought that mattered. But John didn't care about the hows and whys. He wanted the bottom line. "Will Sam be okay?"

Her brow furrowed, and John noticed the gray at the temples of her ponytail. "Our first order of business was to stabilize Sam's vitals and to secure his airway, which was rapidly deteriorating. Because his blood oxygen levels were so low, we opted to intubate him. It's not uncommon with this type of aspiration, especially when it has been allowed to advance to this level. Unfortunately, because of Sam's broken jaw, we had to forego oral intubation--it would be difficult to secure his jaw with a tube down his throat. So we settled on the next least obtrusive method--nasal. There are more risks of complications with this type of intubation, but such complications are better than the alternative."

"Which is?" John prompted, feeling his own throat tighten.

She raised her eyebrows. "Loss of the airway and total respiratory arrest."

John swallowed hard, feeling sufficiently chagrined. Next to him, Dean shifted.

"So what next?" his oldest finally asked, giving voice to the words John could no longer speak.

At this, Dr. Werning smiled a little, more sympathetic now. "His O2 levels have stabilized, which is the good news. However, we are very concerned about his rising temperature. Since the foreign material has had time to settle, aspiration pneumonia is a real concern for us right now."

John couldn't move, couldn't blink. Couldn't bring himself to make sense of what she'd said.

Still in control, Dean asked, "A real concern?"

With a collected sigh, the doctor pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "We've got him on antibiotics to help fight off any infection that may be setting in. We've also rewired his jaw. Right now he's stable, but we've placed him up in the ICU as a precaution. We've sedated him--intubation such as his can be very uncomfortable."

These were the words John had been waiting for, the bottom line he'd been asking for.

He just hadn't counted on one so hard, so ambiguous, so difficult to swallow.

It was Dean who asked, "Can we see him?"

John didn't hear the doctor's response. He watched her walk away, a smile saddening her face, the scuff of her tennis shoes on linoleum.

It was silence that followed, heavy and laden by fear, and the only thing John was aware of was the sound of Dean's barely controlled breathing.

-o-

This hospital looked the same as the last--the same out-of-date color scheme with the generic looking doctors and nursing staff roaming the halls. If he'd been in one, he'd been in them all, and even one was simply too many. This time it was even Sam again--with the same broken jaw that had been _Dean's_ fault--and two hospitals within two days was really a record, even for the Winchesters.

It was different this time, though, but not in ways that Dean wanted to think about. This time Sam's condition was much worse. The doctor may have said his kid brother was stable, but she also said that he was intubated, had a fever, and there was a high risk of infection. This was no simple in-and-out procedure. If Dean had been nervous and guilty as hell before, now--

Well, now, the terror was nearly uncontrollable. Fear was digging a pit in his stomach, settling in and turning his insides until he felt physically ill. He might have thrown up, if he could spare the time to do so.

Because this time Dean wasn't ready to accept the blame alone. He couldn't change his fist punching Sam, and he couldn't change feeding Sam the pills and drink that made him throw up. But that didn't mean he had to sit here and pretend like it was all his idea. Damn him for following the orders that led to this.

Damn his father for issuing them in the first place.

Damn his father for driving an entire _day_ without getting Sam the help he needed.

Dean wasn't free from blame, and he'd accept his own gladly, but this time he couldn't turn a blind eye to his father's ways either. He was always defending the man, standing up for him, justifying him. All of his fights with Sam revolved around that very issue--the idea that their father did the best he could, tried his hardest, and only wanted what was best for him.

But the second Dean found himself in Sam's hospital room, he found himself struggling to believe it.

Sam looked awful. He'd looked awful before, Dean supposed, but everything had been so fast then--a total blur of panic and paleness. He'd pinned his hopes on getting Sam to the hospital, as though getting Sam there was the entirety of the battle. Once he accomplished that, once he put Sam in the hands of people who could _really_ help him, everything would be okay.

Dean had been wrong. About a lot of things, he was beginning to realize.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but nothing would have prepared him for the stillness of Sam's body on the bed. His kid brother's long limbs seemed to go on forever on the thin mattress, his legs covered with a blanket, and his skinny arms laying at his sides, each adorned with various medical equipment which Dean didn't care to recognize.

What was really hard to take, however, was the tube on Sam's face. Dean had seen ventilators before--the tubes taped down to mouths--and they'd always unnerved him. But Sam's mouth was shut, his colorless lips touching and almost peaceful looking. With the closed eyelids, Sam could have been sleeping, but the tube intruding up Sam's nose ruined the image. The rest of Sam's boyish features were obscured by it, hard to see through the tape securing the tube.

It couldn't be real. It couldn't be possible. It couldn't really have come to _this_. Sam in the hospital, a tube up his freakin' nose, all because Dean didn't know how to stop a punch and their father didn't know when to swallow his pride.

It was his father who moved first, stepping ahead of Dean toward Sam's side. For a moment, Dean watched dumbly as his father's hand lingered on Sam's head, stroking with a gentleness John seemed to reserve only for life and death situations.

The scene was something from a movie--quiet and simple and maybe almost beautiful. A silent communication from father to son, the passing of hope, of strength. John's hand was steady, loving, and the look of worry on his face was unmistakable.

Dean's mind rebelled. After everything, after driving all day, his father had the nerve to be the good father _now_.

Angry, Dean stalked forward, moving around the other side of Sam, his eyes boring into his father. "He wouldn't even _be_ here if it wasn't for you," he said, and his own voice surprised him with its hardened edge in the quietness of Sam's room.

John looked up at him, his face dismissive. "This is not the time or place for that kind of thing," his father told him.

"Not the time for it?" Dean asked. "Not the time? When is it the time? Two states from here?"

This time his father's eyes were dark when they looked up to him. "Just not in your little brother's _hospital _room," he said shortly. "Sam doesn't need this."

That comment was enough to make Dean laugh. "He doesn't need it? Just like he _needed_ to spar a little more. Just like he _needed _to leave the hospital right away. Just like he _needed _to wait nearly _twelve hours_ to get back here."

His father was livid now, and deeply angry and Dean almost cringed as his father pulled away from Sam's side, moving toward him with the tenacity with which he approached his enemies and supernatural entities. Normally, Dean would have shut his mouth before the altercation even began. Normally, Dean would shirk away now. But not this time. Dean had come too far this time, and he couldn't back down. Not until his father understood.

"Do you have something you want to say to me?" his father asked, looming over him now. "Because if you do, then come out and say it like a man, son, and stop beating around the bush."

Convulsively, Dean swallowed, letting the sounds of Sam's medical equipment give him strength. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I do."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere," John said with a tilt to his head.

"I just find it really interesting," Dean began, his voice finding strength. "All this good father thing you've got going on right now. Like you weren't the one who was responsible for this to begin with."

John smirked at that. "You really want to go there?" he asked, his voice dangerous. "Because I think there's more than enough blame to go around here."

Dean trembled. He'd seen his father fight many people, many things. His father's wrath was powerful and impenetrable. He'd just never been on this side of it before. "You were the one who kept distracting Sam while we were sparring--telling him everything he was doing wrong, making him feel like he couldn't do it, driving him crazy."

"And it was _your _fist that broke his jaw."

Flinching, Dean willed himself on. "I know that," he spat back. "And at least I can admit it. Just like I can admit that I should have never helped you break Sam out of the hospital before he was ready. That I never should have gotten him out without knowing how to deal with his condition. Because now Sam's _not_ okay and I can justify it all I want to myself, but it doesn't change that. And it doesn't change your role in it either."

His father was staring, eyes wide, jaw clenched, face turning red. The rage was building behind his stony features, gaining, twisting, and Dean was nearly afraid to see it burst forth.

"Is that what you think, son?" John asked finally, his eyes cold and his voice low.

Swallowing, Dean nodded. "We can't keep doing this."

John cocked his head with a dangerous calm. "We _have_ to keep doing this," he said. "Because what else are we going to do? Tell me that, Dean? What else? You want to stop training? Fine, then the next supernatural entity out there will get the one up on us and then Sam will end up much worse off--maybe dead. You want to stay in a hospital? Sure, then let the CPS come and take Sammy away. They _will_ do that, and you won't ever get to see him again. And then who will protect Sam? Who will be there for him? Love isn't just soft fuzzies, and I thought you understood that. Love is safety, love is staying together _at all costs_. There's no way around that, and I haven't succeeded at much in life, but we're still together and we're still alive and you better believe your little brother will pull through this because Sam's a lot of things--he's a petulant, disobedient brat sometimes--but he's a Winchester. Just like I thought you were. And neither of you have quit on me before, and I will _not_ tolerate now. Do you understand me?"

It was Dean's turn to stare, heart pounding, dumbfounded, at his father. All his angry words, all his cutting arguments drained from his mind. These were things he'd known, he'd always known, but maybe he'd forgotten. Maybe he'd just never appreciated them before--the delicate balance his father walked between total failure and success, between being a good parent and the worst one ever.

"So you have a problem with that, son, and you know where the door is," he said. "And if you go, you can just keep on walking, because I don't have room for screw ups and fools."

With that, his father turned away from him, moving back to Sam, leaning over his son with the same gentle persistence as before. Only this time, Dean didn't see a hypocrite. He saw a father who didn't know what else to do.

Glancing behind him, Dean saw the door. He thought about life beyond it, about normal and safe and a place where Sam would be happy and free, just like he deserved to be. Just like they all deserved. Walking out would be so easy. And part of him would never even miss his father, never miss the steel-hearted orders or the gruff conversations.

He looked back at his father, at Sam, at his entire life.

Wearily, he sunk down to a chair in the corner, kept his eyes on Sam, and waited.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: And this is the end. It's rather anticlimactic in some ways, but I do think resolution in real life often is a bit anticlimactic. And it has to fit with canon...so I hope it's not TOO disappointing. Thanks to all who have read and reviewed and to sendintheclowns and Rachelly :) All notes are STILL in chapter one. Amazing how that doesn't change.

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PART FOUR

Sam's condition worsened. The boy never regained anything resembling consciousness, and the nurses came and went with sympathetic smiles on their faces. Sam's lungs were suctioned, the antibiotics were increased, and Sam remained as still and as passive as though his entire body had been wired into place, not just his jaw.

By the next afternoon, John was stiff with sitting still and tired from his nonstop vigil. He was used to going without sleep--it was more common than not in his line of work. He'd lost many nights researching, poring over his notes and books, and countless more on the hunt, gun in hand, ready for anything and everything.

Sitting by Sam's bedside, however, was a whole new level of tension. Because there was nothing he could do. What he was waiting for couldn't be offed with a bullet or a burst of flame--what he was waiting for was the only thing in life he needed, the only thing he was clinging to--his baby boy's life. His sons were everything. He couldn't lose them.

Sam tested him in just about everything. It probably shouldn't have come as a surprise that he'd push the envelope in this as well.

Dean slept, on and off, as much as the chair he was sprawled in would permit. His oldest had retreated, not physically, but emotionally, and had said little more than two words since his outburst yesterday.

John sighed, feeling the weight of regret upon him. He'd chewed Dean out, torn Dean down. And he'd been _right_, he had no room to doubt otherwise, but that didn't mean it was easy to say. It didn't mean that it was easy to see his strong, obedient son reprimanded so severely. It didn't mean it was easy to see his brilliant, thoughtful youngest son laid out so lifelessly. Sometimes he can't help but remember simpler days, happier times, when life had been Mary and the boys and everything had been bright and perfect and peaceful.

Letting his head drop, John pushed away the memories. Those days were gone. Taken from him because of his own ignorance. His own failure, his sentimentality had caused him to lose Mary. He couldn't have it both ways--he couldn't provide happiness and joy and still keep the people he loved safe. Losing Mary hurt more than anything else. He would do anything to prevent that from happening again. Anything.

Lifting his head again, his eyes went back to Sam. Dean never questioned him; Sam always did. It wasn't easy with either of them, and he couldn't risk losing the older or the younger. But now Dean was perilously close to rebelling, and Sam was--well, Sam wasn't doing so well.

Fighting with Sam wore him out, frustrated him. It was so often the bane of his existence, the thing that scared him most. The idea that his youngest might not be prepared, thought he knew better than everyone--it made him so vulnerable, and Sam was so _young_ and the world was so _dangerous_ but Sam could never see that. There were days when he'd contemplated smacking some sense into the boy.

Seeing Sam sprawled out on the ground, his jaw a mess had gone a long way to curbing that desire. Seeing him limp on top of Dean in the backseat had thoroughly thwarted it. Seeing Sam like this--with a tube up his nose in a hospital bed--made him regret ever thinking it in the first place.

There wasn't anything he could do, though. He was as impotent and futile as he had been the night Mary died. He was ineffectual and helpless and every other feeling he'd spent a lifetime hoping to never be again. Because he could train his boys, he could research and plan, but in the end he couldn't stop himself from loving them, which was his greatest weakness.

Under the medication and the sedatives, Sam twitched a little in his sleep, his young face creasing with a tension John could only guess at. With a steady hand, he reached to his son's hair and rested his fingers on top of it, feeling the silken strands beneath his fingers. His boy. His responsibility. His life.

"Just relax, Sam," he whispered. "We'll get through this."

Promise or lie, John wasn't sure, but he'd hang on until he found out.

-o-

"Sam's lungs have been compromised by the infection," the doctor was saying. "If the antibiotics don't start getting the upper hand soon, more of Sam's body systems are going to be affected, and then we'll have a real mess on our hands."

Dean watched the doctor's mouth move, opening and closing, and he could hear her words, quiet and gentle, and they still didn't make sense. They couldn't compute. Nothing could.

Because Sam was still on the bed, still unconscious and pale, and he needed to hear that it'd be okay, that Sam would pull through.

He didn't need this. Not a cautionary prognosis and the sinking feeling that everyone in the world was giving up on Sam, that the odds were stacked against them, that this was a game that had been rigged since the beginning, and Dean just didn't know how to deal with that.

There were no words for him to say, no questions left for him to ask, and he felt as weak as they kept telling him Sam was.

This time, however, he didn't have to.

His father, shoulders straight, back tall, looked Sam's doctor in the eye and prompted, "He's still fighting it, though."

She considered this, giving a half shrug. "Yes, his body is still responding to the medication," she agreed, almost reluctantly. "But you need to be prepared--"

His father smiled at that, and Dean knew why. Winchesters were many things, and prepared was _always _one of them. "I don't think you know my son."

She didn't know what to say to that, but smiled a little, uncertainly, and Dean figured she thought they were all nuts--a transient family with no insurance and no ties and a sick son and a blindly optimistic outlook on a downright bleak situation.

It almost made Dean angry. It almost made Dean rebel. But his rebellion was gone, his flicker of blame had faded and now simmered, only condemning himself. Because his father wasn't perfect. His father didn't always make the _right_ decisions. But he made the only decisions he could, the only foolish and ridiculous choices that were possible, and it had been all that Dean had been able to count on his entire life.

Well, almost. Since the day his mother died, he'd had his father's orders and Sam's love.

He couldn't afford to lose either.

-o-

It was two in the morning and John's back ached with an intensity he could no longer shake. He wasn't the young man he used to be, and after days in the hospital room, his body was protesting from the stagnancy.

He didn't care. Most of the time, he could barely feel it. There was nothing he could do about it, anyway. Nothing that didn't involve leaving Sam, and, at this point, that wasn't an option.

It was true, he'd left his boys more often than he knew parents should. He'd left them in lonely motel rooms with nothing more than a stocked refrigerator, a gun, and a promise to be back in three days. Sometimes he made it back in time; sometimes he didn't.

It was also true that he'd missed so much--much more than the work-obsessed office man. He'd missed first days and school plays and soccer games. He'd kept them from so much--all his fantasies of playing ball in the backyard, of coaching his boys on the sidelines, of holding the back of their bikes while they teetered down the sidewalk--they were lost chances, so far gone that sometimes he barely remembered to miss them. Because now it was just one town to the next, with only the minor inconvenience of Sam's griping and desperate appeals to join one activity after another. John was pretty sure Sam wasn't interested in half of what he wanted to join, but that his boy just wanted to belong to something.

Sam didn't seem to get it. That he already belonged to something, the most important thing--a family. And the reason John moved them so much, the reason John _left_ them, was to make it all end, to find the thing that did this to them and get rid of it. When it wasn't safe for the boys, he barricaded them in and did the only thing he could think to do: make the world safe for them.

With a sigh, he hung his head. Too bad it was never enough. There was always another monster. So there was always another motel room, always another broken dream.

In his heart, though, in the places that John knew _mattered_, it'd always been for them. Just like staying with Sam was now. He was hunkered down, dug in, ready for the long haul, because if this was a test, he was sure as hell going to pass it, Dean and Sam by his side, just like it was supposed to be.

But Sam was so _still_. He was practically colorless, wasting away. His son had lost weight, which made his parchment colored skin all the more frightening. His hair seemed longer, too, unruly in the hospital bed, despite the nurses' best attempts to cow it into compliance.

Sometimes, when Dean was asleep, John would trace Sam's young features with his fingers, feeling gently along his son's jaw, taking in the curve of his nose, the softness of his eyelashes in sleep. He'd hold Sam's hand, pick up the gangly arm and intertwine his fingers with his youngest's, trying not to notice the lack of resistance, the fever that seemed to be burning brighter and harder than before.

In the craziness of life, it was so easy to forget, to not look, to overlook. When had Sam gotten so big? When had Sam started to look so vulnerable? What the hell would John do without him in his life?

But Dean was awake now, watching from his familiar post in the corner. His oldest had nearly been struck mute in the days since Sam's admittance, and John almost regretted his harsh words.

Almost, but not quite.

Because at least Dean understood. And he could tell. Dean's hope, his entire _being_, was hinging on this, on how they all came through this.

John hoped that his oldest couldn't see that John didn't know what he was doing, that he had no more control over this than the weather outside. His boys were too old to believe in fantasies and superheroes, but he wished like hell that Dean could hold onto that, just for a little longer, for all their sakes.

As for Sam--well, his youngest had always been a harder sell. Dean had always believed him--completely--from the time he was two years old and John told him that milk was nothing more than white soda to make him down it with glee. He'd tried the same trick on Sam, when he'd actually remembered to _buy_ milk, and the two year old had scowled at him and told him flatly that he was wrong.

If Sam could just hold on, stay _alive_, then John would deal with the rest from there.

-o-

It seemed like days since he'd had time alone with Sam. If his father wasn't lingering, there was a nurse or a doctor hovering, always something, someone, to keep Dean from really talking to his little brother.

Not that Sam could hear him, he knew logically. The doctors were saying that Sam was deeply unconscious now, his body virtually shutting down while it tried to fend off the infection that had taken root. Which was maybe why it seemed so important, why he finally felt like he needed to, because he had to admit it, talking to Sam, really sitting down and spending time with him, hadn't been at the top of his priority list as of late.

In fact, when Dean thought about it, the extent of their time together in the last few months had been meals and training sessions and hunts--none of which were ripe times for conversations. Even at meals, when they sat side by side in front of the TV with a box of take out in front of them, there was little to talk about that didn't spark controversy. Dean's world was hunting--weapons and wicked-looking creatures and women on the side. Sam's world was--well, Dean wasn't sure what the hell Sam's world was, but it sure wasn't hunting. It was school and clubs and hopes and dreams and all the stuff Sam _knew_ better than to talk about. The kid wasn't twelve anymore, and Dean was tired of humoring his childish wishes.

But alone with Sam, him in the hospital bed, Dean perched in the chair by his bed, Dean suddenly wished he'd taken the time, that maybe he'd humored Sam a little better.

It was all a mess--everything in their lives. Not just the hospital, but everything before it. He wasn't sure how long it'd taken for motel rooms and abandoned houses to be run of the mill for him. He wasn't sure when the hunt had become everything he'd ever strived for. He wasn't sure when his father had closed himself off completely or when Sam had stopped following orders blindly, but that was where they were now, and for the first time, Dean realized it wasn't going to get better.

His father wasn't going to lighten up. The job wasn't going to get any safer. The life wasn't going to get any more stable. And Sam wasn't going to learn how to man up and take it.

It was going to fall apart, someday, Dean could almost feel that, and it almost made him mad. If only his father could just learn to explain things to Sam instead of ordering. If only Sam could learn to just do what he needed to do instead of always asking _why_. If only...

If only Sam would live.

He couldn't have everything, so he'd settle for that.

-o-

John had no idea what day it was, whether it was morning or night, when he'd last slept or eaten--none of it. He felt woozy, but was too stubborn to admit it. His emotions were frayed, and he couldn't handle waiting any longer. So he didn't really believe the doctor when she smiled at him and told him that Sam was getting better.

He was so dumbfounded, that all he could ask was, "What?"

Her grin widened. "Sam's vitals are rebounding. We're seeing more urine output, which shows that his kidneys are returning to normal function. His fever is down significantly and should be falling to normal levels within a few days. He's lungs sound clearer, and we're even seeing him taking a few breaths on his own. All indications are pointing toward a total recovery. We'll monitor him closely, of course, but I'm very optimistic."

She was practically beaming, like some kind of proud parent, and it wasn't until she had walked away that John realized that was his job.

-o-

It was like swimming in mud, thick and dark and clingy, and Sam could barely make heads or tails of which way was up and which way was down. He couldn't breathe--not really--and his lungs ached with effort and desire. His limbs were heavy and useless, and Sam realized he was as helpless as an infant.

Futility overtook him, and with it a wave of miserable panic. Tears, unbidden and uncontrollable, came to his eyes, and all he wanted was out.

"Sam? Sam, can you hear me?"

And Sam could, but it was far, distant, and Sam couldn't speak anyway.

"Just relax," his father said. "Dean and I are here. You're going to be all right now."

All right now. All right. Sam tried to remember. He remembered sparring and his jaw hurting. He remembered the backseat of the car and the pills and the overwhelming need to just _breathe_.

"You're going to be all right."

It was a promise, maybe a lie, one of many, maybe one of few, and Sam couldn't remember all of them, couldn't sort the disappointments from the joys, and he wasn't sure what to believe.

"We'll be right here when you get up."

That was Dean, his brother, the one who didn't lie to him, but the one who he kept thinking should get it but never quite did.

It left him alone, left him confused, left him wanting so much _more_, but Sam couldn't deny that it was safe.

Safe and secure and simple and sleep was coming and he wasn't about to fight it.

-o-

They had no money and they had no insurance, but they hadn't lied about it this time. That fact didn't negate all John's legal worries--he didn't doubt there was still someone searching for them since blowing the hospital on his latest insurance scandal. Hopefully, this time, when they left, the staff would think of them as nothing more than another poor family unable to pay, abusing the bounty of the state. Not exactly anyone's favorite type, but hardly as undesirable as those who perpetrated insurance fraud.

There had been questions already, of course, about a billing address and payment plans. John gave them a PO Box and told the truth when he said they didn't have anything more permanent than that.

There was no way around it. They were going to have to bail early--again.

It was a fact John had been stewing over for several days now, ever since Dr. Werning had announced that Sam had turned a corner. There was simply no way around it. Hospitals wanted payment one way or another, and sooner or later someone would turn up something rather unsavory about the Winchester family history and its many aliases.

For that reason, it was really an obvious choice. Blowing town before they got caught. That was just what they did.

He had a feeling convincing Dean of that point would not be so easy this time around.

Sam, on the other hand, would probably be a pretty easy sell. Since waking up, the kid had been restless and irritable, no doubt bothered by all the medical intervention and the continued inability to talk. It didn't keep Sam from communicating, of course--his boys were too resourceful for that. Sam had become quite adept at gestures and his youngest had always mastered the art of speaking with his eyes, and Dean had been spending a lifetime picking up on his cues.

For John's sake, Sam had accepted a dry erase board from one of the nurses, and was constantly scrawling notes of frustration and petulance.

Normally John wouldn't even discuss his plans. He'd just tell the boys what they needed to know and expect prompt obedience.

Then again, normally it was Sam who was doing all the questioning. Getting it from Dean was not something he relished--and it unnerved him enough to broach the subject with his older son before pushing ahead with another stealthy Winchester escape.

He found his boys where he usually did--in Sam's room. Fortunately the hospital was small and patients seemed few and far between, so they still had their own room, even after Sam had been upgraded from the ICU.

Dean, for his part, had made himself totally at home, and even knew the names and schedules of the nurses of note--including the attractive brunette who tended Sam during the days and the maternal one who would bring Dean candy bars on a daily basis, much to Sam's scowling as he was forced to down atrocious looking and foul smelling protein drinks.

Walking in, he found Dean leaned back in his chair, holding a hand of cards. Sam, sitting up in bed, held the same, but his face was scrunched up in clear, brotherly anger.

"Oh, you meant _threes_," Dean was saying. "See, I thought you held up _four _fingers. I didn't have any _fours_. Threes, on the other hand--" Dean broke off with a grin.

Sam glared.

"It's your turn, Sammy," Dean said coolly. "What number you want?"

Sam held up one finger--a choice one at that.

Dean snickered. "You asked for ones two rounds ago, and I still don't have any."

John cleared his throat, and both boys looked at him. Sam's look was indifferent and he turned scowling back at his cards. Dean raised his eyebrows and put his chair on all four legs.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, casting a dubious glance at the stack of cards on Sam's bed tray. "But, Dean, I think we need a word."

There were times when Sam would be contrary enough to resent being left out, but for once Dean's tormenting of his kid brother was going to work in John's favor. Sam seemed more relieved to be freed from the rigged game Dean clearly was subjecting him to.

Dean looked skeptical, but he held his tongue, instead laying his hand face down on the bedside table. "No peaking," he told his brother. "We'll continue your thrashing when I get back."

Sam rolled his eyes as Dean walked away, and John offered his youngest a weak smile before following Dean into the hallway.

"He's looking better," Dean said, not waiting for John to begin. "It'll be hard to keep his weight up with these damn protein shakes. He was too skinny as it was, but at least he's able to keep them down."

With an absent nod, John searched for the words.

"The doc says a few more days," Dean continued, almost tentative, testing. "Just to be sure. Aspiration pneumonia apparently isn't something they piss around with."

"Which is why we need to leave--now," John said finally, his eyes steady on his son.

Dean didn't even flinch, didn't look surprised. "Same stuff?"

"We have no insurance and we've been here long enough for them to figure out that any address I give them isn't going to pan out," he said. "If they look too hard, they'll find out about the other frauds and will start thinking that Sam's more than just an accident prone teenager."

Dean nodded curtly. "You'll listen to the doc, though," he said. "About all the stuff we need to do for Sam. All of his food requirements, when he can start being active again, when to get his jaw checked, how to use the wire cutters."

"Of course," John assured him.

Dean's gaze never wavered, his eyes studying, penetrating. "And you'll let him take it easy, just like he needs to. His jaw needs to heal or we may never hear his pain in the ass voice again."

At that, John quirked a half smile, but his nod was solemn. "I would never put your brother at risk, Dean," he said. "Not on purpose. You know that."

A moment passed, Dean's eyes still on him. Finally, his son sighed. "Yeah," he said, resignation and acceptance in his voice, and maybe something more--forgiveness, understanding. "I know that."

-o-

Normally, Sam didn't like illicit activities and questionably moral practices, but he had to admit, getting out of the hospital was appealing, with or without doctor approval. There was no doubt his father had his own reasons for wanting to skip out--namely the lack of insurance and a fear of higher authorities getting involved--but for once, Sam wasn't inclined to argue the point.

Not that it would have done much good. His father didn't listen to him on the best of days, and with his only method of communication being written these days, his father had a much easier time totally ignoring him when he wanted to.

His chest ached, from the pneumonia he was told, and his throat still felt a little raw and his nose was irritated. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, but he figured that was partly to do with the crappy protein shakes he was practically being force-fed for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He craved protein in its more natural form--a juicy burger, maybe a pork chop--something _substantial_. He hardly ever felt full these days, and it took an inevitable toll on his energy levels.

Luckily, his part of this plan was easy. Wait for the sign, then take a quick left out of the room and move quickly to the exit and keep going until he was outside and in the clear. Simple and easy.

His father and his brother, however, seemed more concerned over the details.

Sam was buttoning his shirt, watching with wide-eyed curiosity at the exchange between his brother and father. Usually those two seemed completely in synch, working in tandem. His father issuing orders, Dean following them practically before even hearing them. So what was going on with them now--Sam really couldn't say, but part of him wondered what on earth had happened while he was out of it.

"No, I think _I _should be the one to take Sam out," Dean was saying, contrarily and sternly, things Sam never heard from his even-keeled older brother.

Flicking his eyes to his father, Sam watched intently. John's jaw clenched, another move usually reserved only for Sam. "I'm his father, I should be the one--"

"Exactly," Dean interrupted, and Sam's eyes flew back to him. "You're his _father_. It makes far more sense that you'd be the one interrogating the nurses about Sam's continued care. They'll believe you more and I think I can handle Sam."

Without hesitating, Sam glanced back at his father, who was close to glaring at this point. "What if Sam needs to be carried?"

At this, Sam's bystander mode switched off, his resentment flaring. Unable to speak, his brow furrowed and he waved his hands wildly--all to no avail.

"Like I haven't done _that_ before," Dean shot back.

And that really was about all Sam's masculinity could take. As fun as it was to watch his brother argue with his father, he was being talked about as if he was five years old and not even in the room. With frustrated strokes, Sam scrawled out on his whiteboard. "I can walk _myself_." He waved it at them before adding to it. "I don't need _either_ of you to carry me. And we're wasting time--can we just go?"

Both Dean and John paled a little at that, almost chagrined. Then his father cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. "Fine," he said gruffly. "Dean, you take Sam outside. I'll meet you at the car in fifteen minutes and then we're making a break for it. You got the supplies?"

"Enough food and drink to last us two days," Dean clarified promptly.

"Good," his father said. "You sure you're up to this Sam?"

It took all the self-control Sam had not to roll his eyes. Since when did his father ask his opinion about _anything_? Sure, his father was showing it awkwardly, almost unwillingly, but the concern was there, it was real and Sam wasn't sure what to do with it. Things had been bad--he knew that much--but bad enough for his father to coddle him? The man spent his entire life telling Sam to man-up, and now he was practically walking on eggshells.

He almost expected it from Dean, to some degree. His brother had been there through the full gamut of childhood illnesses and injuries, and it was Dean who brought him soup and crackers when Sam was bed-ridden.

Then there was a pause, a pregnant one, where his father and brother exchanged a look, careful and long and purposeful, the passing of some knowledge, some secret that Sam was no privy to.

It was a look he'd seen a lot, lingering in the eyes of his family, darkening when the gaze turned upon him, as if he were the reason, the cause.

"Sam?" Dean said, shaking Sam from his thoughts. "You ready?"

Looking up, Sam tried to garner his resolve. His brother's face was soft, his eyes gentle.

Dean grinned at that, a little too forced. "Then let's blow this joint," he said.

Sam attempted to smile in return, shouldering his small bag and heading out the door, trying to put his doubts behind him. He took a left, quickly and without thinking, his brother right behind him. He kept going, eyes ahead, focused, and he didn't stop until he and Dean were outside and well on their way to escape.

-o-

It was a little weird, being outside again. The Impala's warm leather interior had always been home, but Dean couldn't help but feel like it was somewhat alien to him after his days in the hospital. And it had been days—long days, unending days, hour upon hour at Sam's side. He'd left only when forced, and those periods were brief and fuzzy in his memory.

He'd always thought of the Impala as home, but it wasn't until he was sitting with Sam in the backseat, waiting for their father, that he realized he'd been wrong.

The Impala wasn't home, though it was close in many ways. Sam was home. Everything felt better, everything felt _right_ when his kid brother was with him.

And to think, he'd nearly lost that because of a stupid punch and a stubborn hospital flight.

But Sam was here now, by his side, by all accounts healthy and in a few short weeks would be ready for action.

So why the hell did things still feel so off? He'd squared things with his dad, he'd gotten Sam out of the hospital, and he had no doubt Sam would rebound spectacularly.

Yet, despite all these positives, he couldn't avoid the look on Sam's face. It was a far-too-typical stony look, but underneath Dean could see hints of sadness and pain.

"You feeling okay?" Dean asked, checking his watch briefly and looking toward the hospital.

Sam shrugged.

His brother had a tendency to be moody, but the kid had been more than ready to go. The last days in the hospital had seen Sam sulky, but in a comfortable way. "You sure you feel okay?" Dean asked. Moods were one thing; Sam getting sick again was another. Despite how well Sam had been doing, Dean couldn't forget the way Sam had looked the last time they'd been in this car together. It was a memory that would haunt him forever.

Sam didn't even look up and made no effort to shrug his shoulders this time.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Seriously, Sam," he said. "If you're not feeling well, we can go right back inside, have the doc take a look—"

This time Sam turned a glare at Dean, clearly communicating that it wasn't illness that plagued him.

Taken aback, Dean reconsidered the situation. Usually he was good at figuring his brother out, but Sam's behavior now was downright perplexing. "Come on, Sammy," he cajoled. "I thought you were happy to get out of that joint."

Flicking his eyes at his brother, Sam just looked perturbed.

"You can talk to me, you know that right?" Dean said.

Sam's gaze showed a distinct lack of humor.

Dean grinned in spite of himself. "Well, you know what I mean."

The kid didn't need words to convey his feelings.

Feeling mildly reassured, Dean slapped Sam lightly on the thigh. "You'll be as good as new in no time," he said. "Back to training and sparring."

The minute the words came out of his mouth, Dean knew they were the wrong thing. Sam just looked at him, his eyes big.

"And whatever the hell you like to do to geekify yourself," Dean added quickly. "We'll just have to learn to make time for both, won't we?"

Sam's eyes studied him, and his brow furrowed, and Dean tried to make sense of what his brother was thinking. Finally, his younger brother nodded, attempting some kind of smile.

Dean took what he could get, leaning back into the seat, and trying to feel confident in himself. He could see his father approaching, and they'd be on the road in no time, and things would settle back to the way they were. Sam would study, he would brood, and they would train together. They'd be together, they'd be safe, and it would work.

Glancing discreetly at his brother, Dean tried to believe it. It was, after all, the only thing he'd ever wanted.

-o-

The hours were longer in the car, longer than they had been in the hospital, and Sam found there wasn't much to do except watch the landscape fly by his window. He could have asked for a book and he was sure Dean would have complied, quite readily, in fact. His father and brother were still oddly attentive to him, offering him rest stops and chocolate protein drinks whenever he even blinked in their direction.

There was something comfortable in that, something reassuring, but still Sam couldn't figure out what felt so _wrong_ about it all. Something was off, and he wasn't quite sure what it was, and his family sure wasn't dropping any hints.

No, Dean was effusive, teasing him and hovering, and he was all too aware of his father's backward glances at him. It was the attention he'd craved, that he'd thought he wanted--so he wasn't sure what the problem was.

Dean was making a half-hearted attempt with a crossword puzzle to pass the time, and Sam couldn't help but think that it was another concession his brother was making for some reason.

"Hey, Sammy, what's a four letter word for _academic_?"

Sam just looked at him, half thinking about four letters and academics, and he wondered why the hell Dean was even bothering?

"Try geek," John said from the front, a ghost of a smile humoring his face.

Dean chortled at that, penciling it in. "You should have had that one, Sammy, being our only geekboy in residence."

It was just funny enough to make Sam laugh, but he rolled his eyes for the effect as he tried to think of a four letter word for jerk.

Then Sam saw it again--that look, almost gratitude, of penance--passed from his father to his brother.

Sam's mind worked again, trying to piece it together.

"How about a four letter word for slacker?" his father prompted from the front.

Dean frowned a little in jest. "I know a five letter one--_Sammy_," he said. "You know, if you wanted to get out of training for a bit, you could have just asked."

It was a joke, and Sam knew it, but it hit something inside of Sam, something deep and still not healed. The same wound that flared up every time his family downplayed his interests, ignored his desire to do well in school, failed to recognize what was important to _him_.

"Aw, kiddo," his father said, eyeing him sympathetically in the mirror. "Dean didn't mean it. You take the time you need, okay? Then we'll get you back into it slowly."

Then Sam saw it again--that _look_. It was a look of knowing, a look of trust--a look of compromise--and Sam knew in an instant that the coddling wasn't about him.

He should have seen it sooner, guessed it long before now. The hovering. The closeness. It was guilt.

Both his father and his brother were harboring their share of guilt--for Sam getting hurt, for taking Sam out of the hospital too soon. It was why there were no reprimands about Sam improving his fighting technique, why there was no consternation over Sam landing them all back in the hospital at the risk of being discovered. Because they blamed themselves. Dean, undoubtedly, for punching him. His father, presumably, for dragging him out of the hospital.

Nothing had changed. He was still the youngest son that needed to be protected, that needed to fall in line. He just had to be alive so they could both do their jobs.

Swallowing hard, he looked down. That wasn't fair, and he knew it. His brother loved him, and his father did, too. But they still didn't get him, and nothing--not injury or peril--would ever change that.

"Okay," Dean was saying. "A five letter word for _alienation_."

Sam just closed his eyes, turning his head away, and he knew the word immediately: _alone_.

-o-

The drive fell to silence.

Sam couldn't talk much, and when Dean's attempts at conversation had dwindled into Sam's tiredness, the older brother seemed too tense to make any more small talk, at least not with John. All conversation had been for Sam's sake, and when his brother withdrew, Dean followed him, intent and close.

As for John, there wasn't much to say. Nothing sounded right. His own jokes had been a peace treaty, but nothing near what either boy deserved. Apologies and reassurances flitted through his head, but they seemed all wrong—too little, too late.

They drove through the day and into the night, and as night fell across the landscape, so did Sam's eyes, and he watched his youngest drift off to sleep in the rearview mirror. Dean remained awake, eyes peeled against the encroaching blackness, his watch still focused on his brother.

John didn't know where they were going, they were just going, and it'd be another day before he felt like it would be safe to stop.

He kept driving, the hum of the road reverberating in his soul, driving long enough until even Dean's eyelids drooped and then stayed close in the early hours of the morning.

Sam wasn't quite happy and Dean didn't quite trust him and John wasn't quite right in all of this, but all he could think was that somehow, maybe, he was close enough.

Still, John didn't stop. There was no place of refuge for them, no safe harbor to rest in. The boys asleep in the backseat, the road ahead of him, and John just kept on driving.

_end_


End file.
